Vortigern's Tower
by wryter501
Summary: The warlord Uther Pendragon has one last enemy to conquer before claiming the king's crown, and Arthur is determined to do his part in spite of his youth. The hill known as Dinas Emrys controls the valley, the key to the kingdom of Camelot. There is, however, the question of the druid boy Merlin and where his loyalties lie... there is no victory without sacrifice. A/U!
1. Lay of the Land

**Chapter 1: Lay of the Land**

Arthur balanced his quill on the back of his forefinger as he slouched in his chair at the table, thoroughly bored.

"An inappropriate use of your writing instrument, young lord," Geoffrey murmured from the other end of the single massive bookshelf, the one reason why the extra room off the old man's house was given the name _library_. Arthur glanced up to catch a remonstrative glance over his old tutor's shoulder. "Seeing as your assignment is not yet half complete."

"Perhaps if the assignment were not so _dull_," Arthur muttered rebelliously.

Geoffrey took a moment to locate the volume he sought, then made his way back to the table. "If you expect the correspondence and written law-work of a king or a lord to be as captivating as a bard's tale or a singer's lay or even –" he tucked his chin to give Arthur another reproachful look – "a swordsman's duel, you will live a disappointed life, I'm afraid."

"Perhaps the fighting will go on," Arthur suggested. "Perhaps I'll be a warlord like my father, rather than a prince or king."

"All gods forbid," Geoffrey said, horrified. "That would mean your father's failure, you realize. He fights so that you will not have to."

"And I train because…" Arthur goaded the old man.

"You train so that you may defend yourself," the old man countered. "You plan for the worst, and hope for the best."

"In that case –" Arthur pointed his quill triumphantly at the tutor – "my time is better spent on the training field, isn't it?"  
"Hm," Geoffrey said. "Especially on the first fine morning of spring."

"Exactly!" Arthur agreed, grinning.

"Arthur…" Geoffrey shook his head. "Someday you will learn that much of being a man – a lord, a leader of men – is putting aside your own desires to accomplish what is best for the people under your care. For me, that means setting aside my research to force the profits of my education into a certain thick-skulled young man."

"Hey!" Arthur protested. "My father promised you'd get a house-sized chamber for a library when he builds a citadel for the capital of Camelot's territory."

"Even so," Geoffrey nodded. "Sometimes there are rewards for setting aside your own desires to fulfill a duty. For you, for now, it means applying yourself with patience to an alternate form of combat that kings employ – that of the written word. The pen is –"

"Mightier than the sword, I know."

"We all know which one you'd prefer, Arthur," Geoffrey said. "And it is a good thing for a king – or a lord - to have a reputation as an able warrior. But a king who despises the power of language is one who is vulnerable to exploitation by those better versed than he. Now, once again, if you please, from the top paragraph."

"It's not even current," Arthur complained. "A treaty proposal from one dead man to another – _boring_, Geoffrey."

"_Boring_ is inconsequential, young lord," the librarian observed. "It is _necessary_."

Arthur grumbled, but began reading at the paragraph his tutor indicated. He hadn't muttered his way through two of the endless elaborate sentences before the door creaked open and Morgana stuck her head around the corner.

Her long black hair in a braid over her shoulder, she gave Arthur a bright smile with more than a little amusement in it – she knew how much he disliked this aspect of his education. Up until last year, when their father had decided more education was not befitting a lady of her status, she had been his classmate. But he was too relieved by her interruption to take much offense at her gloating.

"Ah, Lady Morgana," Geoffrey greeted her. Of the two of them, of course the girl was the prize pupil, Arthur groused to himself. "Welcome home! When did you get back?"

"Not yet an hour ago, Geoffrey," Morgana answered. She seemed excited, but didn't venture further into the library. "We were still in the courtyard when a watchman called that a courier had been sighted, approaching from the northeast at a gallop." Her green eyes met Arthur's as he straightened in his seat. They both knew what that meant.

Geoffrey did not share their anticipation. "Hm," he said. "And I suppose you volunteered to fetch Arthur to the council chamber, my lady?"

Morgana put on an innocent expression that somehow conveyed respect for the aging tutor and a lack of it for Arthur at once. "If it's quite convenient."

"He has not requested my presence?" Geoffrey asked. At a shake of Morgana's head, he mused, "Well, His Lordship still has the maps I copied last week. Let him know I will come if he needs me. Yes, Arthur, you may go."

Arthur bolted from his chair, ignoring the spilled inkwell and the tipped candle. Once out into the sunlight, he set a pace that had his younger half-sister skipping to keep up with. He smiled to himself; if she'd grown an inch over the winter since they'd seen each other last, he'd grown at least three. Finally he was taller – and now, at just seventeen, likely to remain so.

"Just got back this morning?" he said to her. "I'm surprised Father let you return. There's been no talk but that of war for half a dozen weeks, now."

"Oh, there's always talk of war," Morgana gave him a wide smile. "I'm surprised you're still wielding a quill in Geoffrey's back hall instead of a sword in Father's front lines."

He bumped her with his shoulder as they hurried down the busy street, and she yelped and scrambled to keep her divided riding skirt clear of the mud of the puddles. Paving the streets of the lower town with cobblestones was quite low on Uther Pendragon's list of Things To Do When I Am King Of Camelot, but it was there. Right behind, _stock a library for Lord Geoffrey of Monmouth_.

To show he was sorry, that he had matured – a little – he said to her solicitously, "And how is your family? Your mother, your sister?"

Morgana shot him a venomous look, returning to his side. "My mother is fine," she said stiffly.

"Didn't come with you?"

"She prefers the south-western climate year-round," Morgana said smoothly.

Arthur rolled his eyes. "You mean, she prefers keeping her distance from Uther Pendragon," he said.

Morgana made a sour noise. "After Gorlois was killed in battle, Mother thought attracting the attention of a widower war-lord would mean a second marriage –"

"And, in Uther's case, a throne, and a crown," Arthur interjected.

Morgana ignored him. "Not another daughter, and this one out of wedlock." This fact didn't concern either of them; if Uther reached his goal of conquering the lands of Camelot, claimed the crown, and managed to keep it, that would make Morgana the most sought-after bride in the kingdom, illegitimate heritage or not. Of course, if Arthur really wanted the sharp side of his half-sister's tongue, all he had to do was say the word "bride." It was not dissimilar to his own reaction to the question of marriage, actually – but he probably had twice as many more years to delay answering that question as she did.

"And your sister?" he asked. It had been many years since he'd been in company with Morgause. The older blonde girl had Morgana's snap and fire, but with the additional volatility of magic, a topic that made the pragmatic Uther highly uncomfortable. If he couldn't see it, he couldn't understand it, he couldn't control it. And the gods knew, Uther Pendragon hated anything he couldn't control.

"I didn't get to see her this time," Morgana said, regret in her voice. "She's reached the highest levels in her studies, and couldn't take the time to come home." Studies in magic, they both knew, and neither would say. The forbidden "m" word they had giggled over in deserted corridors when they were children was a serious consideration on the cusp of adulthood.

"You wish you could go, too?" Arthur said, surprising even himself. Morgana had never shown much interest in the subject – though how much of that was due to lack of natural talent and how much to the dampening effect of their father's prejudices, he didn't know.

She shrugged, tossing her head. "Let him try to marry me off to one of these boorish middle-aged lords and then see how fast I ride for the priestesses' isle," she said.

He laughed, and it seemed to him the first such exercise his lungs had felt in months. Laughter was not encouraged in their father's presence, and the joking he participated in with the other young men in training was the sort to elicit smirks and sly snickering at the expense of the aging instructors or the younger squires, not whole-hearted laughter.

"Glad you're back," he told his sister, bumping her again, only not so hard. They came into view of the fort, up the hill from the lower town. Their home in Camelot was dug several levels into the hillside, the visible structure built of rough dark granite blocks, heavy and temporary, as their father was fond of reminding everyone. Easily defensible, which was necessary until Uther Pendragon's power and position were confirmed, but not the sort of soaring, breathtaking citadel Arthur's father had in mind. Towers visible for miles… sometimes Arthur could look up and see it in his mind's eye, and sometimes he thought they'd be crouching in the dim, damp fort for the rest of his life.

"Just in time for the excitement," she agreed, her green eyes gleaming as she took off running over the drawbridge, through the grassy courtyard around which the fort's various buildings were centered. Arthur gave in to her unspoken challenge, and they bottle-necked at the door to the council chamber, each shoving the other to get ahead, crossing the antechamber giggling and breathless – and coming to a sliding halt under the disapproving eye of their warlord father, himself.

"Morgana. This is no place for a lady. I'm sure, even after six months' absence, that you recall the way to the women's quarters." Uther's tone brooked no argument, though Arthur knew his half-sister well enough to see that she was literally biting her tongue as she made her curtsy and left the council chamber.

Now the sole recipient of his father's gaze, Arthur drew himself up, attempting to appear the model prince his father required, even though it was far too late. Uther jerked his head wordlessly, and he followed into the chamber, taking his place at the side of the table by the foot - since the warlord had not seated himself, none of the others present had, either.

"He couldn't have chosen a worse time," Uther said, obviously continuing a line of thought that Arthur and Morgana's noisy entrance had interrupted. He bent over the map spread at the head of the table. "Rodor I trust to keep to the terms of our agreement. He is an honorable man, and after his wife's death wants nothing more than to be left alone to rule his kingdom in peace. But Olaf and Odin are both treacherous and ambitious. Godwyn and Tristan have all they can do, each with a full quarter of our troops, to keep our borders free and peaceful."

"It is unfortunate timing, my lord, I grant you that," Agravaine acceded. "But I do not believe it is more than unfortunate. Vortigern is not an intelligent man, for all that he is the last obstacle to your conquest of Camelot. We have never caught a single one of his spies for the simple reason that he does not send any out – I don't believe he is aware of the state of the rest of Camelot."

Uther made a thoughtful noise, straightening as he stared down at the map. "Vortigern has the brains of a war-axe," he said. "But he has also the weight of one and the threat of its sharp edge. His men gather in numbers almost equal to half my own, and we have all heard the rumors of his attempted alliances with Saxon invaders that have landed far to the north at the coast."

Agravaine pursed his lips skeptically. "No one has ever substantiated those rumors, my lord," he said. "Vortigern is a lot of noise and wind – a general of questionable skill who cannot and will not hold out against Camelot's most able warlord." He gave Uther an obsequious half-bow that the older man ignored.

"He's rather more than that," Uther said.

At that moment there was a flurry of movement at the door of the chamber, and the courier entered.

Sir Leon, a knight now almost two full years. Arthur still found that he looked up to him, in spirit if not in stature, as he had since his own training began years ago. Older and more skillful, Leon had nevertheless had the patience and compassion to encourage his lord's son, and had taken Arthur's moments of admiring emulation as well as his jealous attempts at competition in stride. He gave Arthur an easy smile of greeting as he strode past on his way to the head of the table. His skin was ruddy, hair roughened by the elements; his movements held a confidence somehow lacking in the knights and squires whose experience was limited to the training field, the tournament grounds. There was a smell of the high wild moor-winds about him that made Arthur long for the freedom and excitement of a courier's life.

"My lord," Leon said respectfully, inclining his head to Arthur's father. "I bring news of Vortigern's army."

"Very well," Uther said, motioning impatiently.

"He is working to fortify his camp, to build a permanent tower," Leon said. "The raids into the countryside have increased and ranged further afield, but he pays now builders and masons as well as warriors and mercenaries."

Uther swore. "He no longer expects to challenge me in open combat, he plans instead to erect his own castle like an uncivilized robber-baron, preying on the countryside and undermining the rule I wish to establish, a constant threat to the peace I wish to bring and an obstacle in the road to prospering trade. A thorn in my side forever, to encourage the resistance and rebellion of the likes of Odin and Olaf – damn it! Where, Leon?"

As Leon leaned over the map to point, Arthur drifted cautiously closer, interested but prepared to retreat back to his place at his father's reprimand. He noticed Gaius doing the same, stepping out from the line of respectfully silent councilors - taking in the points of discussion but holding their opinions until requested – to view the map also.

"This hill controls the valley," Uther said flatly. "Through which the trade route to the entire north must go, or lose all profit through a two-week detour to the west, a route which Olaf controls. The valley through which a Saxon army could descend into the heart of Camelot with little warning." He slammed his hand on the map; Arthur craned his head to locate the hill and valley in question.

"He cannot be allowed to remain there," Agravaine said. Arthur refrained from rolling his eyes with an effort; the man had a politician's way of stating the obvious while concealing his own opinion and providing no insight or advice whatsoever. Uther, who retained a warrior's fondness for getting to the point, sometimes had little patience for him, family though he was and riches and influence though he had.

"My forces are divided, Agravaine," Uther growled. "If I cannot hit Vortigern hard and fast and triumph immediately than I must not hit him at all – either Odin or Olaf will surely attack while my back was turned, carve another slice of Camelot's lands for their own. And if I withdraw troops from the west to send against Vortigern in the northeast, they will surely both move against me. Yet the more I delay, the stronger Vortigern's position becomes."

"My lord, if I may?" Leon interjected hesitantly. Uther gave him a nod of permission, only half-attending. "Vortigern's chosen site is undoubtedly the most strategic – however, he has met with some difficulty." Now the young knight had both Uther and Agravaine's attention. Gaius took another step closer.

"Difficulty," Uther echoed. "Explain."

"They've surveyed their site and marked off the outer defensive wall, measured for the inner structures," Leon said. "They've cleared and leveled the land and sunk a well –"

"A well?" Gaius interrupted, speaking for the first time – a rare occurrence for the close-mouthed old physician, who rarely spoke his mind without being pressured into it by Arthur's father – it had to do, Arthur and Morgana had once theorized, with the physician's small talent but vast education in the arts of sorcery.

"There is a natural spring," Leon said. "The difficulty they have, however, arises from earth tremors that occur every night at midnight, ruining much of the progress of construction accomplished that day." Gaius lifted his head as if a sudden thought had occurred to him, but as he stood behind Uther and Agravaine's attention was on Leon, no one seemed to notice but Arthur.

Uther said, "You have witnessed this phenomena?"

"I have, my lord," Leon said.

Morgana often accused Arthur of having no imagination, but for an instant he had no trouble envisioning the experience – the black of night, the uncertain chaos of the earth itself in rebellion, the screams and calls of the men attempting to tame the mount.

"It does not sound like a natural phenomena," Uther stated ominously. Then he turned to Gaius.

After a moment, the old physician stated, "It is certainly unusual, if not impossible, for a natural event such as an earth tremor to be so consistent or predictable, my lord, yes."

"Sorcery," Uther spat.

Arthur opened his mouth to point out that if it was a sorcerer's doing, then it worked in their favor, if it prevented Vortigern from building a tower to defy the would-be king of Camelot, then thought better and remained silent.

"Possibly, my lord," Gaius said, reservations clear in his tone.

"What else could it be?" Agravaine inquired with no little amount of sarcasm.

"That hill," Gaius said. "The name of it is Dinas Emrys, is it not?"

A moment of silence; no one understood the significance that the old man attributed to the name. Arthur held his breath, hoping – Gaius' stories were always the best. Uther, who was impatient to the point of incredulity, made a motion indicating the old man's limited time to speak.

"It has been forty years since the last of the dragons has been seen," Gaius stated. "Your fathers and their fathers fought long and hard to exterminate the species as well as the race of men who were their kin, in the Dragon Wars."

"And rightly so," Uther said. "Sorcery is bad enough – no offense intended, Gaius – without the evil distortion that the dragonlords practiced."

Gaius looked at the warlord with that singular expression that meant the old man was biting his tongue for all he was worth on words he wanted to say. Arthur didn't know whether it made him privileged or unfortunate that Gaius always spoke freely to _him_.

"But what do dragons have to do with the hill of Dinas Emrys?" Agravaine said.

"There are some who say that the last and oldest of the dragons was not killed," Gaius said. "There are some who say the great dragon merely – retired."

"_Retired_," Uther scoffed. "For forty years? No, Gaius, we would have heard if one remained alive – there would be sightings."

"As you say, sire," Gaius acquiesed. "I was merely relaying the rumor of the site."

"What, that a dragon lives there, still? And causes earthquakes at midnight?" Uther's sarcasm was thick. Arthur half-wished he could believe it, but wondered what a dragon might do without a lord to command it. "Tales for old women and children, Gaius. Besides, it is a better question for us to consider, not why construction on Vortigern's tower is delayed, but what he is doing about it, and how we can turn the weakness to our advantage in the meantime. An attack at dawn, perhaps, after their camp and its defenses have been destroyed, and before they have a chance to recover? if we can get close enough to launch such an attack before he knows we are there. Sir Leon, has Vortigern indicated any measures he plans to take, aside from merely re-building?"

"Sire…" Leon hesitated. He'd listened respectfully to Gaius' story, and by his expression, he was uncertain enough of the phenomena to accept any explanation as truth. "The local druid clan has declared the hill a sacred site, and it is true that they use a nearby grove for their rituals and practices. There was some talk among Vortigern's men that other clan elders would be consulted for a solution."

Agravaine turned to Uther. "If the sorcerers can find a solution to the problem, construction on the tower would proceed apace."

"And what would you have me do?" Uther said in a mildly mocking tone. "Threaten the druids again with swift retribution should they be caught practicing their dark arts within Camelot's territory? Borders and laws mean little to those drifting vagrants. Or perhaps you think I should offer them amnesty if they refuse to help my enemy? Allow them to ravage our countryside like a swarm of locusts, devouring the crops and herds and livelihoods of our people? No, I think not. Let Vortigern consult the druids; we prepare for war. Leon, take this day to rest and refresh yourself; be ready at dawn tomorrow to reassume your post."

"Yes, my lord." Leon gave a respectful half-bow.

Gaius said, "Please excuse me as well, my lord, I have patients to attend to and other duties to perform."

Uther flipped a hand in negligent permission, and Arthur watched the two men he most wanted to have a conversation with walk from the room, while he was obliged to stay behind, respectfully unproductive. "Now, Agravaine," his father said, bending over the map once more, "this is what we'll do."

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

The pine branch was sticky-rough beneath his hands as he balanced carefully, extending his full length along the slender limb. It dipped slightly under his weight as he inched forward. Bark tugged at his clothing and roughened the skin of his hands, his tattooed forearms as he pushed himself forward with his toes.

A flutter of wings, a slight flare of instinctive panic that he reached out immediately to soothe. "I just want to see," he assured the female robin whose nest this was, on the next-lowest branch below his perch. She settled out of his sight, somewhere above his head, to keep a wary eye on her home and her young, and him.

Cradled in the down-lined bowl of grass and twigs, two grotesque new-hatched birdlings, beaks perpetually opened, heads wavering on too-skinny necks, legs too weak to more than topple them against each other and their egg-bound sibling. He breathed in the pine tang, and marveled at the beautiful unique color of the robin's unhatched egg, the delicacy and the durability that the young exhibited.

That was life. So fragile, and so determined. That was light. That was _magic_, and it filled him so fully, so easily.

Balanced in his perch nearly thirty feet off the ground, his eye caught movement a good fifty yards to the south. The measured, purposeful movement of men – of a group of men, moving as a trained unit. And the red of the cloaks of a patrol of Camelot knights.

Merlin sighed. His clan had been forcibly moved from their last camp not yet a week ago. He wondered if somehow the handful of druids tasked with covering their tracks had slipped up, had forgotten or overlooked something which had allowed the knights to follow them.

Usually no one was killed. Occasionally someone was hurt, if they resisted. Scared, yes. Inconvenienced, always. Things were inevitably left behind in the rush to escape, broken, destroyed. Dishes, tools, other implements, items of food, clothing, shelter. A handful of livestock an enterprising few had managed to keep and raise and breed confiscated. A headache and a half, all told.

Merlin lay motionless along the branch, watching. It was an hour til sunset; preparations for the evening meal had begun, back at camp. Children released from lessons and chores, members who'd sought and found employment with neighboring landholders making their way home. It was terrible timing.

The question was not, really, what he could do about it. The question was not really what he _should_ do about it. The question was, what would the consequences be if he was caught.

The patrol would kill him outright, or capture him to face the justice of the warlord Uther Pendragon, which was the same as saying he'd be burnt at the stake. But a dozen tricks and twice as many variations on said distractions assured him of escape long before that fate. No, he feared being caught by his clan.

There would be a lecture on the appropriate use of magic, on the limitations for underage practitioners and apprentices in place for the safety of all, the importance of leaving decisions that affected the clan up to its elders. There would be punishment. He himself could go no lower in the social strata of the clan, and didn't mind that, but he was always ashamed at how his inability to conform to the clan rules affected his mother. And of course it was his fault they lived like this, anyway.

The patrol had covered maybe twenty yards. His pine tree was between the knights, and the camp. He could call his cloak and his boots to his hand from their place at the base of the pine with a second of minimal unnoticed magic; it would take little more to conceal himself while they passed. Well, it was magic either way, then.

Merlin relaxed his muscles, letting the limb support him rather than clinging to it, and concentrated, calling on his magic. "_Andslyht_," he breathed. A light breeze kicked up, displacing last autumn's fallen leaves, covering the last vestiges of the camp's passage. Not even a hound could track through the magical dissolution, he thought with satisfaction. Perhaps next time he'd be allowed to participate in placing the camp wards, or cleaning their back-trail, in spite of his youth.

But now – he concentrated again, this time using instinctive magic for which he had no words, nor did he need them. Off to the right, a copse of young beeches rustled suspiciously. The red cloaks stopped, exchanged words that he couldn't make out. He grinned and hunkered lower on the pine limb, causing the same grouping of trees to rustle, then moving the magical distraction even further. This time he didn't need to hear the knights' words to understand what they said – they turned aside to follow his false trail unquestioningly.

He ducked his chin slightly to see through the trees in the direction he'd chosen for the patrol to follow, the boles and branches whipping past his inner eye as though he rode on the wind itself, a hundred yards, two hundred. He slowed his sight, alert for the first ideal location to put the other part of his plan into practice… there. A scraggly scrub brush struggled to grow in a rocky, dusty wash. He blew a little more wind to free the area of dried leaves, then concentrated.

The scrub burst into flames that were in no danger of spreading. The smoke would attract the patrol, the spindly charred remains would convince them that someone – the druid clan perhaps, or at least its scouts, had passed that way.

Merlin blinked, drawing his sight back to his own eyes, feeling blurry and a little dizzy, hoping he hadn't over-reached himself. The last of the red cloaks faded from his sight and he smiled. But his moment of personal triumph was short-lived.

Something prickly struck the side of his face, so sudden and unexpected he almost tumbled from his perch. A second small brown projectile arced toward him – he froze it instinctively. A pine cone.

"The next one'll be a rock," a man's voice growled threateningly from the ground. "Come down from there."

Though he didn't immediately move, his heart plummeted straight to the forest floor along with the pine cone he released. He knew the voice – Alvarr. He looked down – yes, and there the explanation for how the young druid leader had found him. Alvarr had a firm grip on the back of Gilli's neck.

Merlin winced and began to inch back toward the trunk of the tree. Last time Alvarr had caught him, he'd had finger-bruises around his neck for a week, and had been forced to hide the marks from his mother's concerned eye with a neckerchief. He sighed, moving from a prone to vertical position for his descent.

"I'm sorry, Merlin," Gilli said as Merlin jumped down from the lowest branch and turned to face them. He was rigid in Alvarr's grip, and there were tear-tracks down his face.

Merlin gave the younger boy a cheerful grimace and a shake of his head. It wasn't Gilli's fault. Merlin wasn't the easiest boy in the camp to be friends with – Alvarr saw to that.

Alvarr gave the younger boy a shove that sent him sprawling. Merlin took a step, and had to stop himself and his magic, both. "Back to camp," Alvarr ordered Gilli. "And not a word of this to anyone, or my father…"

Gilli tried to nod and shake his head at once. The rest of the sentence was unnecessary, a silent warning. Gilli's father was timid and quiet; Alvarr's father Ari was the chief elder of their clan, outranking every other man. That in itself gave Alvarr free rein – that and the fact that he behaved with perfect charm to everyone else. Just – not Merlin, nor anyone who dared show him any special favor or consideration. Gilli did look back, once, before he disappeared from sight.

Merlin bent to pick up his boots and his cloak, and a sudden burst of magic made the leaves and dirt explode under his hands. Harmless, but it made him startle and jerk back.

Alvarr grinned maliciously. "You obviously don't want them, or need them," he said. "Leave them."

Returning to camp without boots and cloak would earn him a scolding from his mother, censure from the other adults – there was no excess of supplies in the camp to permit for loss through carelessness – and yes, again the lecture or punishment from the elders.

"You've got nothing better to do?" he said without thinking. It was stupid, stupid even to open his mouth. There was nothing new to be said; he and Alvarr had been over and over this ground so often no magic could erase those marks.

Alvarr sneered, and Merlin tensed. Ever since he could remember, the older boy had singled him out for his cruelty, testing the limits of his magic and his control. Lately it seemed Alvarr wished to provoke him into the sort of display that would have him and his mother banished. And with every season that passed, Merlin found submission harder and harder to accomplish, even knowing the consequences. Manhood, and the right to face Alvarr openly, was too far off.

"Nothing better to do?" Alvarr said, stalking forward. Merlin backed warily, ready to counter any attack with an acceptable defense, and escape. No witnesses could work against Alvarr, too. "Look at you. What have you contributed to the good of the clan, today? What were you doing up there, sleeping?" He glanced up, then back down, his eyes narrowed, his grin unpleasant. "Lazy, good for _nothing_, son of a whore," he said softly, and his eyes gleamed gold. Merlin's muscles jerked in response, but nothing seemed to happen.

Only – a brown twiggy mass appeared in the man's outstretched hand, the two spindly necks struggling to hold up the burden of the blind, open-beaked heads. The delicate green-blue egg rocked gently beside them. Alvarr chuckled softly to himself, and reached into the nest.

Merlin reacted them without thinking, without planning. He pushed his palm forward against the air, and Alvarr was tossed backward, the nest caught in stillness in midair. Merlin snatched the nest and fled, one hand tented over the tiny creatures and their unborn relative to shield them as much as possible from the jostling of his mad scramble through the trees. Behind him, he heard Alvarr's roar of rage.

He darted behind the thickest trunk he could see and gave the nest a gentle toss, watching it rise in the air, ten feet, twelve, to settle into a cozy crook between two branches. He hoped it was close enough for the mother robin to find; if he could manage it later, he'd come back to help the reunion with his magic – he took off sprinting again, hearing Alvarr screaming obscenities and threats behind him. His one hope was to reach the encampment, where the young man would not dare to torment him without excuse.

_Jealous_? he thought, in response to the explanation his mother always gave as she patched him up, her eyes tight and sad. _Jealous, my foot_!

Merlin had always enjoyed running, enjoyed stretching his lungs and skimming along the ground until his legs burned and his chest ached, it felt free like climbing a tree until it swayed under his weight and the high wind was in his face did. This, though, was why he hated hunting. Hated the _chase_. The feeling that fast wasn't fast enough, merely prolonging and exacerbating the inevitable. He couldn't hear Alvarr over the noise he was making himself, gasping for breath and crashing over fallen leaves, through underbrush, couldn't tell if he was gaining ground, or if maybe this time–

A fallen branch leaped into the air a yard in front of his feet. He couldn't check his rush, and gathered himself to hurdle the obstacle. He almost made it. Around a mouthful of dead leaves, and as he coasted forward on his chest, he cursed his feet, that had grown faster than the rest of him, this year.

Then he heard Alvarr, breathing heavily just behind him. Heard him hiss words like _bastard_ and _monster_. And then it didn't matter what he heard, only what he felt, as he curled inward, trying to cover his head with his arms, trying to wait out the other's rage.

Consciousness departed before Alvarr did.


	2. Destiny Summons

**Chapter 2: Destiny Summons**

_Be wary of Dinas Emrys hill_

_The ancient magic sleeping still_

_The mountain high the giant deep_

_Guard on golden treasure keep_

…..*…..

The nest was safely where Merlin's magic had lifted it. Unfortunately, the old oak's lowest branches were still three feet higher than Merlin could reach. He spent some time circling, to see if he could ascend another nearby tree and make his way across, branch to branch. He spent some time considering whether he could use magic – what kind, and what spell – to lift him up also, to make sure no damage had been sustained by the tiny avian family.

Finally he resigned himself to standing absolutely still below the nest, eyes closed and breath moving soundlessly through his open mouth, to hear how many new-hatched robins peeped hungrily in their nest.

That was how he knew he'd been discovered, once again. He'd heard the footsteps, soft and light on the forest floor, wandering aimlessly til his presence was noticed, hesitating, then approaching.

"What are you doing?" the girl said curiously.

Merlin turned. She was small and plain, light brown hair in braids, simple dress covered by her druids' cloak. She was a few years younger than he, and a stranger to their clan. A visitor, maybe. He gave her a reassuringly friendly smile, and pointed upwards.

She tipped her chin up to follow the gesture, and a shy smile lit her features and her clear hazel eyes. "Oh, a _nest_!" she said. "Oh, I wish we could see it better!"

His first instinct was to call it to his hand, as Alvarr had done, impress her with his magic – but it wouldn't be good for the nest or the babies or the parent robins. Probably they were still traumatized by yesterday's forced relocation.

"I'm Merlin," he said, sticking out his hand awkwardly. It had been a long time since he'd met any unfamiliar children; he wasn't sure how they were supposed to greet one another.

But she smiled, unoffended, and took his hand briefly, her own small and soft and cool. "I'm Sefa," she said. "I came with my father, he's the chief elder of our clan, he needed to speak with your clan's elders."

"About what?" Merlin said, only half paying attention. He was trying to think of something he could offer to do with her, a visitor and a guest, someplace or something special in the vicinity of their camp that he could show her, but they hadn't been there long enough for him to become that familiar with the surrounding countryside.

"Vortigern's offer," she said, and he gave her a shake of his head to indicate his ignorance. "General Vortigern," she repeated. "My father says he's the last man fighting against Lord Pendragon. He's offering to treat with us – with all the druids."

"For what?" Merlin asked.

"For –" She looked at him with mild disconcertion. "Official recognition. Peace. Our rights to move and settle and – do magic. Freely."

"What does he want from us?" Merlin said. "Does he want sorcerers to fight for him?" Druids were peaceful, as a race, but he guessed men like Alvarr could be found in the midst of any peoples – men who were impatient and resentful to the point of violence.

"No, he just needs to perform a ritual." Sefa shrugged thin shoulders. "My father wanted to ask your clan elders about the sorcerers in your camp, so they have the magic they need, or – or something."

"Oh." There was an embarrassed pause, while Merlin twisted the toe of his boot into the dirt and tried to think of something to say.

"I – should probably get back to my father," Sefa said, angling her body to face the camp again. "He – told me not to wander too far." Merlin mumbled something vaguely agreeable, and she added before beginning to walk away, "It was nice to meet you, Merlin."

"You as well," he said after her, returning her wave. He watched her go, like a little brown wren in her movements, neat and bright.

_It was nice to meet you_. He smiled again at the thought of the words, the warm feeling they had given him, that he might be someone worth meeting, worth knowing, after all. He wondered how long she and her father were staying, whether he'd see her or speak to her again… and how long before someone mentioned to her the disgrace of his fatherless birth and the bizarre nature of his magic.

Still, it was enough to make the rest of his day enjoyable, if passed in solitude.

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

Arthur didn't know how long he'd been hacking at the training dummy – a farmer's scarecrow dressed in odd bits of old armor - in the field outside the walls of the fort, but his limbs felt leaden when Morgana's call interrupted his swing. Only a handful of men remained, he saw, glancing about, the boys and young men who needed or requested special or additional instruction from the knights in charge of training for the month.

He turned to see Morgana dismount and pass her reins to her companion – the untidy blonde locks revealing the other young horsewoman to be Godwyn's daughter Elena. The two girls exchanged words, then Morgana turned to trudge toward him. Elena gave him an awkwardly self-conscious wave, which he returned with a brief, impersonal salute. Elena wasn't bad, as girls go, but she was still just that – a girl. Their paths crossed more often during the half of the year when Morgana was with the Pendragon side of her family, but he had the vague idea that Godwyn was impatient for a conclusive victory, the peace that would allow him to return his family to his own lands on Camelot's western borders.

"It's late for you to be out here," Morgana said as she reached him. "It's almost dinnertime; Elena and I cut it close this afternoon – now I'll either be late or dine smelling of horse."

"Perhaps Father will have you seated next to Agravaine," Arthur suggested. She made a face, and he added, "Then it would be to your advantage to smell like a horse."

She made a sound of agreement. "Who are you seated next to, then, that you're trying to drive away with the stench of your sweat?" she teased. "Or is this remedial exercise?"

He growled and turned away to sink his dulled practice sword into one of the straw-filled archer's targets. Neither. He was just – not hungry. Restless and dissatisfied. "A message came from Leon, earlier," he told her, beginning to strip off his gloves. "The druids agreed to help Vortigern. They requested two days to gather the resources necessary for the ritual. Father is dispatching additional scouts in the morning to disrupt the proceedings in any way possible – he hopes to have the army prepared to converge on Dinas Emrys before another week goes by."

"Half the army," Morgana corrected softly, perching on the archer's target and thumbing the edge of his blade through her riding glove absently. "Dinas Emrys…" her voice trailed away. He'd ended up telling her the key points of the council meeting after she'd cornered him the other day, as he usually did. She was keen on politics, for a girl, though Uther never allowed her to enter the room, much less the discussion. "Did you get a chance to talk to Gaius?" He nodded. "And?"

"And – you know Gaius. It's always, _so it has been said_, and _as the rumor goes_, and _once it was written_." They both knew how hard it was to pin the old man into committing his own opinion or stating his best guess outright. "But he hinted at the existence of a spell that takes a great deal of magic – the magic a dragon would be capable of, say – and sidetracked into a lecture about the theory of winter hibernation in certain animals, the bear for instance."

"So he thinks it possible a dragon hibernates beneath the hill of Dinas Emrys?" Morgana was disturbed – he'd have thought she'd scoff at the fanciful tale, the rumor of the possibility of one last dragon remaining, after forty years' assumed extinction. "Did he say anything about the dragonlords who are supposed to control them?"

Arthur shrugged, shifting feet that wanted to leap into physical training, again. Precise footwork and the balance of the blade in his hand made everything in his life seem like it fell neatly into comprehensible place. Like he was in control. "He just rambled about marriage and birth records and the impossibility of tracing hidden bloodlines."

Morgana paled even further, if it were possible. "He thinks there might be someone left?" she said stiffly. "A child, somehow…" Neither of them said it, but both knew it was just as possible for a dragonlord as a warlord, to pass a bloodline to a child without benefit of marriage or legitimate birth. "Did he say anything else?" Her query was too intense for mere curiosity, but he answered as if he hadn't noticed.

"There was supposed to be a druid prophecy. Something about a lost key and a bell – fire and blood, pretty typical for druid stuff." He shrugged. "And then somehow we were talking about the properties of comfrey."

"Did you –" she began, but he knew what she would ask.

"I asked Geoffrey this morning, and we spend hours searching what few scraps of druid lore Father overlooks in his library," Arthur said. "I think Gaius was a druid in a former life – those people can't say anything plain or straightforward to save their life." There was an awkward, sobering pause, as they both remembered that it was not unheard of for a druid to lose their life over their teachings. "I don't see that it matters," he continued obstinately. "Whether there's a dragon there or not, whether the druids' rituals can kill it, calm it, set it free, whether the dragonlords' blood lives on somewhere, unknown. Father will march with the army to face Vortigern regardless of the mystery of Dinas Emrys, and I –" She leaped up to catch his sleeve as he turned to head back to the drawbridge, the only gate in the outer defensive wall.

"Don't go!" she cried softly. "Oh, Arthur – don't go!"

"What do you mean?" he said blankly. Her eyes were dark and dilated; even her lips were pale. "What's wrong, Morgana, why are you so bothered by this place? You must have guessed that Father would deny my request to accompany the army. Did something happen? Did someone say –"

"I had a nightmare," she blurted. "Last night, a whole – jumble of images. Someone held a sword to your throat, and you were following a weird mage-light down a dark tunnel, and an enormous dark dragon roared fire at you, and then I saw you laying on the ground with a terrible wound in your side and – I think you were dead."

Arthur stared at her. "It was just a dream, Morgana," he said. "I'm not even allowed to –"

"It wasn't just a dream!" she snapped. "It was –" She cut herself off, her eyes darting this way and that, as if to seek any eavesdroppers – or any other explanation.

He had an inkling of what she thought. The household she had just returned from, the older sister whose talents were – undeniable. "Have you told Father?" he asked her.

Morgana rolled her eyes and then glared, now stalking on ahead of him. "You're joking, right? He'd pack me home to Mother for _good_."

"Did you talk to Gaius?" he went on, more quietly.

She bit her lip. "He said it was just a nightmare, and gave me a sleeping draught. He said the same thing – that you weren't even riding out with the army, you were clearly in no danger."

Something in Arthur's heart rebelled at that assumption, that he would remain safely at home with the women and the other children while the useful warriors rode out. That he would be left with those grizzled veterans and untried boys capable of nothing more strenuous than guard duty. Under the command of a soft-handed politician like his uncle Lord Agravaine.

"Mm," he said. "Safe and sound."

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

Merlin made his way home slowly, carefully, his recovered boots on his feet, his brown hooded cloak making him a shadow in the dusk. At least Alvarr had left them alone, at the foot of the pine tree. Probably after delivering his own brand of punishment, the other druid had simply forgotten the garments. Had forgotten Merlin himself, and he hoped that would last for a few days, this time.

He circled the camp to come at the tent he shared with his mother from behind, to avoid walking through the middle of it, and all the attention that would gain him. Negative attention – the other children staring or tittering, the adults staring or ignoring him with lips tightened in disapproval. He longed for his coming of age, for the time when he could use his magic openly and freely, and maybe the good he could do, then, would excuse the mistake of his existence.

Merlin was trying to find a good excuse for the two of them to move on to a new clan – perhaps they could leave with Sefa and her father, when their visit was concluded - and lie about his age, when he reached his home tent. Hunith straightened by the cooking fire outside their tent, ladle in hand. The welcoming smile slipped, replaced by a frown of mild disapproval, which in turn gave way to a more worried resignation as he approached.

Last night after he'd regained consciousness he'd delayed his homecoming until the camp was still and dark, sneaking into his bedroll with a whispered greeting. He'd left the same way, before dawn and before his mother woke. But there was only so long a boy could delay the inevitable confrontation with his mother when the visible bruises and sore movements gave him away.

"It's fine, Mother," he told her before she could ask, and gave her a quick hug. "I'm all right."

Her lips pressed together, even as he squatted by the bucket of water to splash his face and hands clean. "Alvarr?" she said wearily, watching him. "What happened this time?"

"Two of the eggs in the robin's nest hatched," he told her, instead of answering.

She sighed. "You mean, you were too distracted to notice him coming and avoid him like I told you," she said.

_I'm kind of tired of avoiding him_, he thought, but didn't say. It wouldn't do much good. If he fought back, he'd have to do so with magic, and that would have them banished.

"Merlin," his mother said, then, "what about the pigs?"

Oh, so they'd found out about that. He supposed it didn't really matter how. "I finished early," he said.

"Using magic?" she guessed.

He could feel the tips of his ears turning red, though he didn't look at her. He'd been assigned to assist a nearby farmer for as long as the clan remained in their current location, with duties that included feeding and caring for the pigs – but without boots, it was a nasty prospect.

"What about your lessons, then?" she asked. "Ari told me earlier that you weren't in attendance either today or yesterday." He didn't answer; the bruises might have answered her question for today, but yesterday… "Merlin?"

"I don't like lessons," he said softly. There was no way to say it without sounding like a petulant eight-year-old.

There was no way to make her understand how it felt to sit there with the resentment and mistrust of the other children simmering around him and the smothering pressure of the instructor – at once trying to ascertain just what he was capable of and force him to contain the vast majority of his magic. They wanted him to explain how he could do things none of the rest could, how he could control at first attempt spells that the advanced students and the experienced instructors spent weeks mastering.

It would be different if he tried to expand his power, if he studied hard and practiced all the time, if he worked and wanted to be so different. Then at least he would deserve the way they looked at him and talked about him.

"They tell me to stop, to slow down, don't use so much, that these things I do should take time and study and should remain hidden until I earn them, and I can't, and they don't – magic is light and breath and what they're trying to do is make it dark and – they're trying to choke it out of me." He stopped before she could tell him, _breathe, Merlin_. Before the tears that came to his eyes could fall.

"There's no one else to teach you, Merlin," she said.

He twitched his shoulders uncomfortably. They couldn't teach him much anyway. "Their magic – I'm kind of afraid of it, Mum. It's about darkness and secrecy and rituals and –" And blood. The most powerful magic, what a student of his skill would be ready to learn – would be mature enough to handle, understand, accept – was blood magic.

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

Arthur slumped on the chest at the foot of his bed, wishing his chamber had at least one window, that he could gaze out while organizing his thoughts. Wishing that he had a manservant, as his father and Lord Agravaine had, even one of a handful of attendants as the women's quarters shared. Someone that he might talk to and trust his response, trust that he would keep what was said to himself. The other young men he trained with, noble-born squires and common-born guards and soldiers alike gossiped like girls – a few words said to one inevitably made their way around the field, lips to ears and on and on. Nothing was private, everything ridiculed. All thoughts, all feelings not related to the task at hand bottled up tight to dissipate forgotten.

He kicked his heels on the chest. A manservant might be nice, he reflected, to pick up around here, too, so he didn't have to. His room was always such a mess; it was a waste of his energy to do anything about it.

The warm sun and the free wind, the earned exhaustion of the training field had been necessary to work out the resentment he'd felt at Uther's decision to leave him behind when the half-army marched. To bring him back to the submission of an obedient son, to make his father proud, and he'd believed he'd gained his goal. The thought of any other possibility never really crossed his mind.

But at dinner. The councilmen whispering of last-minute plans, terse and tense and serious over their plates. The warriors with the air around them crackling of preparation and anticipation, glorying in the opportunity to prove strength and loyalty – his mind whispered, this is what a _man_ does. His father, it seemed, saw him as a boy, still. The few women at the table in the great hall either whispered their admiration of the warriors to each other, or sat in pale apprehension of the danger their menfolk would face. Even the servants, Arthur noticed, gave the fighting men their preference of the dishes served.

And the son of the warlord sat alone. Gaius' eye fell on him more than once in stern speculation, but the old physician was seated across the room. His father paid him no mind; Morgana was too preoccupied for her meal and his company. Her hastily-told dream and plea with him – so uncharacteristic of her – to stay out of danger, stayed with her as it stayed with him. He found himself wondering if his father, the other knights, shared her lack of faith in his ability to defend himself.

Arthur excused himself as soon as he could politely do so, and confined himself to solitude in his room. It was a dream, nothing more, he told himself, and not even his dream. But – if it wasn't? If he was _meant_ to fight at Dinas Emrys?

It made him feel cold, then hot, to realize that he had a choice, after all. It was a longing not unlike hunger, a frightening eagerness that carried also a faint nausea. If he were willing to face the consequences, it could be done. He was no longer a child who _needed_ his horse saddled, his clothes chosen, his meals prepared, his path indicated, by others.

Part of him said, _Father has made his wishes very clear. He wants a son who is reliable, dependable._ Arthur rose from the chest and began to pace the length of the room. Part of him wanted to kick that part around the training field. _I am my own man. Capable of making my own decisions – making my own mistakes, if it comes to that_.

Daring, and initiative. Weren't all the old stories, the legends, full of that – wasn't that valued in a warrior, a leader? Fortune favors the brave, isn't that what Geoffrey said?

He found himself facing his wardrobe, opening the doors. Locating his oldest items of clothing, the nondescript hauberk – being hardened leather, it was kept in his room rather than the armory. His hardiest boots… the breakfast leftovers that he hadn't cleared away perfect for his purpose – the dried apple, the small crusty loaf, the strips of smoked and seasoned meat.

Scouts would be dispatched in the morning. He had at least eight hours, a near-full moon for light and stars to navigate by, a map committed to memory. His heart sped up – could he do this? Was he really going to?

The hill called Dinas Emrys… it beckoned to him.

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

Merlin wandered through the center of the druid camp as dusk faded to dark, his cloak pushed back over his shoulders, his sleeves rolled up to his elbows, exposing the swirling pattern of his defining tattoos. He loved this time of day, everyone was relaxed, duties over, tired but not yet ready to retire for the night. Children's games had become hushed and passive, centered around various camp-fires no longer needed for cooking – no longer needed for heat, either, as the warmer weather of spring took hold on the land. The shadows and the faint light meant more people glanced up with a relaxed smile that needed no recognition; at this time of day he almost felt as though he belonged here. He didn't see Sefa; he couldn't decide to himself whether he was watching for her, or not…

In the unguarded serenity of the moment, he was entirely unprepared for the _jolt_ that shuddered through him, halting his step and dragging his attention off to one side, to one particular small fire and the four men that gathered around it.

Just as all four looked up at him.

Ari, with his bald head and the unnerving look of cunning in his deep-set eyes. Alvarr, his blonde hair attractively wind-swept, the cruelty covered by a suave smile. Iseldir, white-haired and kindly, but patient to the point of inactivity. And a stranger – Sefa's father, maybe, by the company he kept. His gray hair and beard were neatly trimmed, and short, the air of wisdom that hovered around him cooled by the determination in his eyes.

Like a rabbit startled by the hounds, he couldn't move, but simply stood, staring back.

The stranger turned to Ari, and though Merlin could not hear his words, he saw them clearly enough on his lips. _Is that him?_

He shivered involuntarily, and fear as he'd never felt before churned nauseatingly in his stomach. He felt caught by the darkness, by the pinpoints of fire in their eyes, overwhelmed by some knowledge each man carried, that he did not. The very shadows scrutinized him, it seemed, weighed his worth.

Merlin wanted to run, to flee as he had from Alvarr's unforgiving fists and heavy boots, but Sefa's clear, innocent words dropped into his mind like cool rainwater – _so they have the magic they need._ He took one step, then another, keeping his eyes on Iseldir's compassionate gaze, til he stood facing the one elder who had shown him something other than censure and exclusion. Alvarr sneered and turned his back, facing the fire.

"This is Merlin," Iseldir said simply to the stranger.

Ari added, without looking at Merlin, "You see, he is as we have said."

The stranger made a noncommittal noise. "How old are you, boy?"

"Fourteen, at the vernal equinox," Merlin answered, then added, "Sir." He felt ill at ease standing, but had not been invited to do otherwise. He tightened his grip on the rope handle of the bucket of water his mother had sent him to fetch until its fibers pricked his hand through its calluses.

"And you have no cause to doubt his innocence?" the stranger added to Iseldir. Alvarr gave a snide laugh, and Merlin's face burned.

Iseldir's sympathetic smile soothed Merlin's embarrassment. "The boy is pure yet, that is my understanding," he said.

"And when was your first witnessed act of magic?" the stranger continued, eyes sharp on Merlin once again. He didn't answer - the whole camp knew of that incident, and no one spoke of it.

The magic his mother sometimes mentioned, fondly reminiscing of his infancy, didn't officially count, with her as the only witness. The magic playing with his babyhood friends, likewise. This landmark in the life of an adept required two other unrelated magic-users to observe and testify.

An authenticating performance was required of every young male druid of their clan, coming of age and proving strength and skill in magic, to be inducted as a man, a sorcerer, and an elder, establishing his status in regards to the other elders. Everyone, Merlin had come to understand later, had witnessed him copying in his childish admiration and curiosity, the spells that the young man being tested performed.

Alvarr had never forgiven him for that unintentional humiliation.

"He was four years of age," Iseldir said softly. The stranger glanced at Ari, who nodded in emotionless confirmation. "Merlin, this is Ruadan," Iseldir said, then. "Do you know why he is here?"

"You hope to secure an agreement of peace for all the clans with General Vortigern, who opposes Lord Pendragon. You require magic performed for a ritual…" he let his voice trail off.

"Sit, please," Ruadan said, and Merlin crouched down on his heels, setting the bucket down and wrapping his arms around his knees. "Vortigern seeks to build a tower on a strategic hilltop," he said. "He cannot make progress or complete the tower due to regular disturbances in the mount. We have divined that a certain ancient ritual may calm the earth that rebels under the constraints of man. This ritual requires considerable magic… we are faced with the question of _quantity_ or _quality_. To earn freedom for all our people, freedom to exercise our magic as the clans approve, freedom from persecution, from hatred and fear," Ruadan told him softly but firmly. "We can take a dozen of our young men and women. Or…"

He understood. In a detached, academic kind of way that had nothing to do with the Merlin whose ribs were sore with bruises, who carried water in a bucket for his mother, who received her proud smile and her cool hand brushing his hair back before she kissed his forehead. They could use the combined magic of a dozen average adepts – or the magic of just one who was easily as strong as twelve. He remembered a tale of old, a cursed city rebuilt to a shadow of its former glory by a stubborn infidel – _by the bones of his firstborn was the foundation laid_, so the macabre story went, _and on the breath of his youngest were hung the gates_.

"Do you understand what we're asking ?" Ruadan added.

Merlin felt like he was falling, though he hadn't moved. He couldn't look at Alvarr. Or Ari, either, for that matter. As he forced his gaze to meet Iseldir's, it felt as though the creaking of his neck must have been audible to the men facing him. One glance was sufficient – far from protecting him from the suggestion, Iseldir had joined the others in expecting the outcome.

Ah, the darkness was absolute.

Iseldir's quiet sad confidence of not only Merlin's comprehension but also his cooperation was like a heavy weight settling on his chest. He couldn't breathe. He looked into the fire, the heart of the element that came most naturally and comfortably to his control, but found no comfort. So he gave in to a more childish instinct and buried his face in the crook of his elbow, closing his eyes to block out the world.

"Let me handle this." He heard Iseldir's quiet voice, felt the older man's hand light on his shoulder. "Merlin? Come with me for a moment."

He didn't open his eyes until he heard Alvarr's contemptuous snort as he allowed Iseldir to pull him to standing by his upper arms. The look of melancholy calm in the elder's eyes steadied Merlin as it had done so many times before, and he allowed his feet and legs to hold him upright. Iseldir bent to retrieve Merlin's water bucket, and Merlin followed as he ambled away, slow and a little bent.

He saw nothing and heard nothing until he ran into the older man's back at the entrance of his tent. Iseldir didn't glance back or comment, just stooped to hold the door-flap aside, and Merlin followed once again. Inside, the older man spoke a spell to light a pair of candles; his pallet and blanket were rolled and laid aside where they would not be in the way during daylight hours. Merlin dropped to a cross-legged student's position on the ground in wordless habit, while Iseldir unfolded a hinged canvas camp-chair and seated himself.

For several moments Merlin held the elder's gaze as the familiar camp noises continued muted outside. He felt disconnected from it already, as if his spirit had torn free from his physical life. At the same time, he was oddly and excruciatingly aware of each pulse of blood, each breath that swelled his lungs.

"Tell me what you recall of the legends of Dinas Emrys," Iseldir said in his gentle, patient way.

Merlin was startled, distracted. Diverted by the invitation to recite a lesson learned. "Dinas Emrys," he said.

"Be wary of Dinas Emrys hill

The ancient magic sleeping still

The mountain high the giant deep

Guard on golden treasure keep.

Take magic's soul to all men's cost

If blood be spilled then all is lost

Lord's true key in plainest sight

Becoming prince set all aright.

With hair of sun and gaze of sky

The bell will ring to let him by

So join the key and ring the bell

Descend into the flaming hell.

Old and young beyond the wall

Unlock the future with one call

Light of fire and light of sun

Both become the chosen one."

Iseldir smiled approval. "What does it mean?" he said, making the question hypothetical with his tone. "Prophecies are rarely understood until after their fulfillment."

"I don't understand what it has to do with – the tower," Merlin said uncertainly. "Or the ritual."

Iseldir drew in a deep breath. "Dinas Emrys," he said. "The mount of the slumbering giant. The site of the last battle of the Dragon Wars, ended when the last of the old dragons offered up his life, to quench the fire and stem the tide of bloodshed." He leaned his shoulders back and planted his hands on his knees. "_Take magic's soul to all men's cost_… You know you are unique, Merlin. A warlock among sorcerers, your magic unfathomable, even to us. Such gifts are not random. There is a purpose for your life, as there is for us all, only – the scope of your destiny may be as great as that of your magic."

"But I don't want a destiny," Merlin objected, a little desperately. "I want –"

Iseldir watched him with a critical eye, nodded knowingly when he paused in confusion and uncertainty. "Dinas Emrys is not a hill like any other," he said. "It is sacred. I believe your destiny is calling you there, though –"

"I don't want to go." His throat hurt, and he was frightened as he hadn't been since he was a very small child.

"The decision is not in our hands," Iseldir said gently. "The ritual will be done. If you will not go, the elders will draw lots. Any child old enough for confirmed magic and young enough to retain their purity will be entered, and may be chosen."

That meant Gilli, his one if timid friend. Another thought occurred to him. "Sefa…"

Iseldir nodded. "She has not been told details, but yes. Ruadan is prepared to offer her as one of the twelve. It is he who performs the ritual; he believes in what he does so strongly he would not withhold his only daughter."

Merlin closed his eyes. Balance. Life and death. Gift and giver… and if he thought life for him was hard now, he couldn't imagine trying to make it through one more day, much less the tens of thousands of days he'd endure if he lived to be as old as Iseldir. The knowledge that he'd refused this would make each one of them unbearable.

"So this is my destiny?" he said. "I did not think it would come so _soon_."

"I believe it is your destiny to _go_," Iseldir said carefully, and Merlin looked at him again. "That is all I will say. I am so terribly sorry, Merlin, that you cannot have more time for your decision –"

"No," he said. His throat felt raw and swollen, as if he'd been bawling like a lost calf for an hour. No, it was better this way, with less time to think, to _feel_. Better, if he was to leave, that it be quick.


	3. Taking Leave

**Chapter 3: Taking Leave**

_Lord's lost key in plainest sight_

_Becoming prince set all aright_

Iseldir kept his hand on Merlin's shoulder as they stepped through the camp, quieted and darkened like the crackling campfires that had subsided to glowing coals for the night. It was good, that soft caring pressure. Without it, he felt as though he might take a step that never touched ground, float away like an adept's first uncontrolled magelight, formless and fading as it rose.

His mother was waiting beside the campfire that she'd kept burning, and he felt sorry. He had been gone way too long for a simple trip to the stream and back. She looked relieved to see him, mollified somewhat by the elder's presence, though her expression held plenty of what's-he-done-this-time.

"Try to get some sleep," Iseldir told him kindly, and he recognized the dismissal.

He crawled into the tent he and his mother shared, where she'd already laid out his pallet and bedroll in anticipation of his arrival. He turned in the small space and stretched himself out on his stomach, toeing his boots off in the darkness behind him. His arms flat on the pallet, bony elbows bent, he pulled the cowl of his cloak over his head down to his eyebrows and propped his chin on his hands to watch the two adults that remained outside the tent.

Merlin could hear the murmuring of their voices, but not the words. He watched Iseldir's expression – soothing, explaining – saw acceptance and resignation on his mother's face. _What do I say to my mother_, he'd asked the elder. A question without an answer. By the look of it, Iseldir had chosen not to tell Hunith the whole truth. At least not yet. He decided he wouldn't, either. Why should he have that burden to bear, also? Let the rest of them face his mother – after.

Iseldir's body language signaled his leave-taking, and Hunith stood watching his cloaked figure fade into the shadows before turning to enter the tent. She didn't drop the door-flap, nor did she immediately say anything to him; he wondered if he should apologize for making her wait. She knelt to pull the hood back from his face, reaching under his chin as if he were a small boy to untie the cloak and fold it for him for the night. Then she settled back onto her pallet, making no move to ready herself for sleeping, her eyes on him.

So instead of turning to face the wall of the tent as he normally did, to protect her privacy, he rolled onto his side facing her, pillowing his head on one arm. "I'm leaving tomorrow, Mum," he told her. "With Elder Ruadan."

There was no surprise on her face. Iseldir had told her as much, already. "It won't be for long," she said, to comfort herself as much as him, he thought. "His daughter Sefa will stay here with our clan until you return."

His throat constricted and his eyes pricked with tears. He swallowed and still couldn't say anything. _I don't want to go_! his heart cried out, a scared and wounded child. _Don't let them take me_!

"You don't want to go?" she went on, concern entering her voice and her eyes. She reached to smooth his hair back from his eyes.

He cleared his throat. Not a child. Not anymore. "I have to go," he told her, struggling to keep his voice grown-up and calm, when he wanted to throw himself in her lap and weep. "They need my magic."

"The ritual." Hunith nodded. "Iseldir seemed to think it a very important thing; I'm proud that you can help." She tipped her head to align her face with his, a soft, sad smile curving her lips. "You are growing so fast," she said. Usually such a comment would draw from him an impatient huff of breath, a roll of his eyes. Tonight it was another shard of regret in his heart. Could he really leave her like this? Then she said, "You look more like your father every day."

Time seemed to slow, the world to dwindle in importance to just the size of their tent. There were no generals, warlords, prophecies. Just a boy and his mother – and a long untold story in her eyes. Brown eyes – so different from his own, when he looked at his reflection.

On the eve of departure, he suddenly saw her differently. Not as a mother, comfortably middle-aged, placidly going about the duties of life and comfort and care for her child, but as a woman who was once young, and innocent herself. A person, a girl, who had hopes and dreams – who had made choices.

Merlin pushed himself up slowly to sitting, folding his long legs between them. "My father?" he said. She never spoke of him.

She cupped his face with her hand, tears shining. "It's time, isn't it?" she said, but it was a question for herself, not for him. "Ah, Merlin." She sat back, dropping her hands to her knees and gazing at the tent-wall, at her memory. "I was just a child when I met your father," she said.

"Tell me?" The urge to know, to finally understand, why he was who he was, that had grown stronger as it had been buried deeper, the more seasons he put behind him, rose suddenly to the surface. Now or never.

"I grew up in a small village about a day's journey northeast of here," she said. "Ealdor. Not too far from your Dinas Emrys, actually, though it was quite a hike before you could see the hill." Your Dinas Emrys. He shuddered, but made no protest. "When I was a very tiny child, two strangers came into our village. It was the dead of night, and they beat the thunderstorm that was coming by minutes, only. I remember sitting straight up in my bed, thinking it was thunder pounding on our door. My father shouted for whoever it was to go away, but my mother heard, as I did, the words _hurt_ and _help_." Hunith's eyes met his again. "Your grandmother was the healer for our village, did I ever tell you that?"

"So you opened the door…" Merlin prompted, his voice sounding dry.

"It was a boy. A skinny, scrawny boy with shaggy black hair and bright blue eyes." Hunith's own crinkled at the corners with a wider smile than Merlin had seen in some time. "His father was injured, wounded." The smile slipped. "If they ever explained what happened, I did not hear of it. And later – he would not speak of it."

"His name?" Merlin's voice sounded little more than a croak to him; he tried again. "What was his name?"

"Your father's name? was Balinor," Hunith said. "His father – never recovered from the wound."

Balinor. It was a good name, and that was an odd relief to him. It sounded strong, it sounded brave, as if its owner had his own mind, and answered to no one. It sounded – noble. "What happened?" he said.

"He stayed in our village. He lived with us for a while before moving out to take an apprenticeship with the carpenter. The years passed, we grew up." That genuine smile of happiness was back. "The skinny, scrawny boy turned into a handsome young man, tall and broad-shouldered. He always smelled like fresh sawdust…"

Relief – there was hope for him, yet! Merlin resolutely pushed aside the realization of what _his_ destiny was to be. He was listening to his father's story tonight.

"_Every_ girl fancied him," Hunith said. "And it was as if he never noticed that he'd grown up, it never occurred to him that the flirting was more than common friendliness. And one day – he looked at _me_." The smile was still steady on her face, but a tear rolled down her cheek. She shook her head at Merlin. "I was young. My parents told us to wait."

Merlin found himself blushing at the thought of his parents' attraction to one another, though it also made him feel _safe_. Secure. He'd never believed the word _whore_ had applied to his mother, but without _knowing_…

"We had planned. We had agreed. Summer solstice, after my coming-of-age, we would say our vows before the village elders. A week before that was to be, we took a free afternoon to go walking." Another tear followed the first. "We walked farther than we should have, before we noticed. I said, we should turn back. He said, stay with me awhile longer." She shook her head again. "There were voices, there were men. They said… and your father… Merlin, he had magic. You know that, of course, know that you inherited that from him, not me – but it was _strong_ magic. He was unarmed, and he fought them… but it was not enough. He was wounded, just as his father was wounded."

Merlin found he was pressing his fist to his chest, to ease his breathing and the clenching of his heart. He blinked the blurriness away from his eyes.

"I could do nothing," Hunith told him, as if he'd accused her of negligence, as if she was trying to convince both of them. "It wasn't slow, but it was steady, his death. A deep wound, badly placed – I couldn't stop it bleeding." He reached for her hand, picking at the edge of her apron, and she took his instead, turning them over and laughing a little. "You have your father's hands," she said. "I walked home, and I told my parents – everything. Everything. It was soon obvious – you were on the way. The villagers – made things difficult. For my parents. The other girls were jealous, and no one else had seen what happened. There were – lots of questions. Suspicion. And you – when you were born, I knew right away you would be just like him."

He knew the rest, or could guess pretty close. Magic-wielding children were a rarity... His mother had left her family and her home to join the druid clan, that he might learn to control and use his magic, that he might grow up in a community that would understand and accept. Destiny, it seemed to him, had a sour sense of humor.

"Here," his mother said, reaching for the fine cord that encircled her neck always, drawing out the ornament he'd never seen. "You should have this; it was your father's. It – and you – are all I have of him."

Merlin opened his mouth to protest, _then you should keep it_, but didn't. His hand rose of its own accord to accept the thick silver piece, not quite two inches long. He called the light of the candle closer to identify the pendant as a dragon, mostly composed of outstretched wings and winding tail. It was simple, rather than intricate, and flat like a coin.

"He said, _I'm sorry_," Hunith spoke, the pain of the last moments with her youthful lover and almost-husband tempered by the years. "He said, _I'm the last_."

"The last what?" Merlin said, still fascinated by the dragon pendant. He spun it between his fingers.

"He didn't say," Hunith said. "I assumed he meant, because he hadn't fathered any children, any sons." He met her eyes and she gave him a fond smile. "He never knew of you."

He repeated his father's last words to himself. _I am the last_. Now it was true. He laid down on his pallet and turned away to the tent-wall as his mother whispered her customary _good-night_ and _I love you_.

He fell asleep with his father's token in his hand.

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

It was almost laughably easy, Arthur's departure. Clothes changed and supplies packed, there was no reason to wait. No one would check to see that he was in bed or asleep – it had been years since a nursemaid had been paid to perform that service for the warlord's motherless son. He did not even wait until after curfew – when discovery meant discipline.

The barracks building housing the sleeping chambers of the nobles and knights was separate from the great hall where dinner was served. Arthur had only to slip out the door and around a convenient corner to be out of sight in the shadows. He took the long way to the drawbridge, keeping to the darkness where the torches of the sentries didn't reach.

Then he merely had to wait near the drawbridge until the servants who'd finished duties within the fort crossed on their way to homes in the lower town, walking together for companionship if not safety. With the hood of his cloak up, not so unusual on an early spring night to excite curiosity or comment, he slipped in behind the last of the servants. They didn't pay him mind, and neither did the guards who gave the whole group a cursory glance-over. It was not their job to prevent people _leaving_ the fort.

The training grounds lay to the north of the fort, the cavalry stables to the south, outside the walls and separate from the small private stable with the half-dozen mounts kept for the use of the warlord, his family, and anyone else with his special permission, within the fort wall. One of them – though undoubtedly superior in quality and far more familiar to him personally – would be harder to make off with and far more swiftly missed than one of the hundred or so, with riders and grooms alike in rotation.

The tack room was not locked until curfew, either. It was quite simple to let himself into the stall just across from the room, hide and wait an opportunity when the attendants were all otherwise occupied, then avail himself of the equipment he would need for his trip. Once he had his mount, a dark brown gelding with no distinct markings, readied, it was easier still simply to lead him out. No one expected such a thing to happen – the warlord's son pre-empting a scout's assignment without authorization. No one questioned an unrecognized figure acting as if he belonged, as if he was just doing a job.

Arthur knew the schedule and routine of the patrols stationed on the perimeter, a hundred yards out. He waited until one had passed, then walked, leading his mount away from the fort, away from his father.

For a single instant, as he turned his face to the north-northeast, in the direction of the valley and the hill, he remembered Morgana's panicked cry, _Oh, Arthur – don't go!_

But his boots continued on. He walked, leading the gelding, for several hours, until moonset. It was foolish – he ignored the voice in his head that said this whole endeavor was foolish, he was going to end up locked in his room like a naughty child and shadowed for days by an impatient knight tasked with baby-sitting the warlord's wayward son and disgraced in the sight of, well, everyone – foolish to ride at night. It was better for his own feet to encounter potentially dangerous abnormalities in the shaded ground than the horse's hooves, even at a walk.

Excitement and heart-thumping exhilaration kept him going for half that time, and stubborn determination for the rest, before he tethered his mount and rolled himself in his blanket for a few hours' sleep before dawn.

He woke stiff and hungry and damp with mist. For a moment, as he began to stretch and stir, he wondered why his bed was so _hard_ all of a sudden, and how the fire in his room needed stoking because it was _cold_, and –

Arthur bolted upright, a shock of excitement and apprehension waking him fully. For the first time in – _ever_, he was on his own. No one to tell him what to do next, tell him to wait, to hurry. It was pure _freedom_, and it was a little intimidating.

He took comfort in going through a semblance of a morning routine – break his fast and his camp, care for the horse, mount and ride.

It was a day full of odd extremes. He'd go from worrying that his pace was too slow, that he'd be overtaken by legitimate scouts, by guards with his father's orders to take him into custody, to worrying that he was pushing his horse too hard. Wondering if he should take the time and attention necessary to replenish his meager food stores hunting small fowl or animals, or whether that would distract and delay too much.

Getting lost was not a concern. The valley was, as his father had said, the one route to the north, and the overlooking hill unmistakable. But if he misjudged and angled too far to the east or west he'd lose precious hours correcting his course.

As the sun began to descend to the west, Arthur focused on his plan. To find and join Leon, scout Vortigern's camp, and – at all costs, and by any means necessary, though what that would actually entail, he wasn't sure – prevent the druids' ritual. Leon would be well-hidden from Vortigern's men that he watched at all times, but he would also be alert to the arrival of other messengers from Lord Pendragon.

He guided the gelding down a small hollow to a trickling stream, dismounted and knelt to bring a palmful of water to his mouth. Leon would be surprised to see him, of course, but he'd share details of Vortigern's site, they'd watch and wait their chance. The ritual must go unperformed until Camelot's army arrived. Not that a tower could be built in less than a week, obviously, but without nightly earthquakes, the enemy could entrench and fortify their position on the hilltop - and the longer Uther's attention was on Dinas Emrys, the more likely that his Uncle Tristan – the older brother of Agravaine, and Arthur's mother Ygraine – or Lord Godwyn, or both, would have war on their hands, also.

Arthur dipped another palmful of water to splash over his face – and the cool droplets of water were the last thing he felt.

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…... …..*…..

Merlin's day was an unsettling mix of frenetic activity and dragging delays. His mother had him up, washed, and changed into a fresh shirt for his journey before he had a moment for the sinking apprehension sitting in his gut like a cold stone to define itself clearly – oh… the ritual.

Then he crouched on his heels by their campfire in the pearly pre-dawn, staring down into his cooling bowl of porridge, wishing at once that he didn't have to eat it – he was sick and empty and the feeling had nothing to do with his stomach anyway – and that he had twice as much to finish before there was nothing anchoring him to his little corner of home.

His mother kept saying things like, "Come, eat up. You have a long day ahead of you," and "You don't want to keep Elder Ruadan waiting, hurry a little faster, love." He wanted to tell her to stop, knowing how she'd feel when she realized what her last words to him had been – and at the same time he craved her gentle scolding and the steadying normalcy of her actions and words.

Ruadan came to their tent as he swallowed the last of the porridge, Sefa at his side, bright and shy like the little wren she reminded him of. He stood, and his mother took the bowl, setting it aside, and hugged him tightly.

"I love you," she whispered in his ear, adding various ridiculous admonitions to remember things he already knew for taking care of himself, for his behavior and manners.

Over her shoulder he watched Ruadan draw his daughter to him, the knowledge on the elder's face that his goodbye would be short-lived. Ruadan's happiness to be leaving Sefa behind in the druid camp contrasted with her discontent and confused Merlin's own reluctance to leave with his mother's determination to send him off with cheerful punctuality.

"I love you, too," Merlin said, when Hunith drew back. So many other things he wanted to say crawled up in his throat – _Thank you_ and _I'm sorry_ being foremost – but he didn't. He couldn't. He simply bent his face close to hers again, forehead to forehead as he was much the same height as she. And repeated, "I love you. Promise you won't worry about me."

Ruadan said, firmly but kindly, "Come, boy."

Merlin's mother rearranged his cloak on his shoulders, giving him a tear-eyed smile, adjusting the strap of the pack that held his supplies. "I will see you soon," she said. Her hand slipped down his arm as he stepped away, and he held the contact as long as he could, giving her a last smile, as happy and genuine as he could summon.

He looked over his shoulder to remember to wave, and Hunith and Sefa both returned the gesture. It was hard to breathe, turning away, walking away, and he stumbled somewhat more than was usual for him. The rest of the camp was wakening, beginning a new day, a day like any other as he passed through on Ruadan's heels.

Would they know? Would they be told? What would they think of him – after? He hoped at least that his participation in this all-important ritual would bring his mother honor and new respect. She deserved that, he thought.

Gilli crawled from his tent as they trudged past – he looked surprised to see Merlin, dressed for a journey and following the stranger out of camp, but he gave Merlin a tentative wave, which Merlin returned with a nod of confirmed friendship. Alvarr he noticed particularly, also, checking a cloak that had been hung near his fire to dry overnight. He twisted to glance at them over his shoulder, and his eyes connected with Merlin's.

Merlin could have spoken telepathically, leaving the elder he followed oblivious to the words – Now do you respect me? Now do you see that I am good for something? Now admit that I am capable of doing a man's duty? Acknowledge me as something of an equal, give me some credit to go on… But he didn't. Alvarr's expression didn't change; his eyes were flat and unyielding, and he turned away.

_Now you have got rid of me at last. And for good_, Merlin thought bitterly.

At the edge of camp Iseldir waited. Merlin met his gaze with a single second of blind hope for an impossible reprieve – and a tear trickled down the old man's face. "Safe travels," he said to his brother elder, and Ruadan exchanged a nod with him.

Iseldir lifted his hands and began to chant the lines of the Dinas Emrys prophecy like a benediction, his voice following Merlin as Merlin followed Ruadan. And every word, and every step, somehow served to ease the oppression of Merlin's spirit, to lift the darkness that threatened to choke him with his own heart. It was a ballad of heroism, a promise of freedom and light, though won at great cost, a belief in a new dawn as yet unseen.

He reached up and wrapped his fingers around the dragon hanging at his throat. Balinor, the father that himself had grown up alone, who found hope and happiness after storm and violence. Who had given his life for the woman he had loved. And Hunith, who had given up her life and home for love of the son that was unique.

Merlin held his head up, breathing in the spring and the dawn. He was the son of Balinor and Hunith. He could make sacrifices for the sake of safety and freedom for others, also.

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

The water that splashed Arthur's face was far more than a cupped handful, and exploded against his skull with a throbbing pain. He found himself sputtering and blinking, on his back with packed earth beneath him rather than the leafy loam of the forest. And the hard suspicious faces of stranger warriors above him rather than the spreading branches of trees. His body jerked in reaction, his hand scrabbling at his empty left hip.

A bright point of sharp metal scraped up his chest to the hollow of his throat, and he froze, as much from the shock of realization as from the sense of danger. Morgana's voice echoed in the back of his mind, _someone held a sword to your throat_…

One of the faces laughed. "It isn't there, lad." The men retreated somewhat, and Arthur struggled up onto his knees, slightly dizzy from the pounding in his head. No sword, no horse, no idea where he –

It was a military camp, but with a settled feel to it. Some tents, some structures dug down into the earth and supplemented with slender logs, more appropriate for the cold weather than flimsy canvas. And some that were an odd combination of both. There were men all around, in all attitudes – sleeping, sparring, eating, drinking, gaming – a scant handful of cowed, slovenly women.

He put a hand to his head, and winced at the knot just behind his left ear, then glanced up at the half-dozen men who encircled him. The tallest of them, a skinny, straw-haired man a good decade older than Arthur gave him a nod and a gap-toothed smile, stroking the leather thongs of a sling at his belt.

A stone, then. He supposed he should be thankful they'd used sling-shot rather than crossbow bolts. But the realization that he'd been taken unawares by Vortigern's men made him groan at himself. He'd failed…

No. No, he wouldn't accept that. He took a deep breath, and pushed himself to his feet. "Where's the General?" he said. "Where's Vortigern? I heard he was hiring mercenaries."

The tall straw-haired man sniggered. His red-haired neighbor squinted at Arthur. "If yer accustomed to gettin' paid fer yer sword, then I'm a damn druid."

Arthur summoned his courage and glared at the man. "Everybody starts somewhere," he spat, channeling his fear into anger. He was nervous enough to lose what little lunch he'd eaten right on the dirt at the feet of these fighters, but he was yet his father's son. "Give me my sword back, and you and I can discover whose skills are the most valuable."

"Whoa, boy," rumbled a deep voice behind him. He turned to face the broadest and oldest of the men, who wore a hairy bearskin cloak in spite of the mild weather, his arms left bare and his greasy gray moustaches hanging longer than his grizzled beard. "Full of piss and vinegar, aren't you?"

"General Vortigern?" Arthur said, feeling his mouth go dry and his stomach drop to his boots. In all his planning for this expedition, he hadn't planned to face death. Not like this. A valiant wounding, perhaps, in a too-fast-for-rational-thought battle, but not… execution.

The man didn't bother to confirm his guess. "You say you come to sell us your sword?" he said to Arthur, gruffly skeptical. Arthur sent a quick glance around him – he was surrounded by way too many men to break free. And he trusted this man to adhere to knightly principles concerning unarmed captives about as far as he could throw him – he knew he must hide his identity, here. "Cenred," the big man added, addressing one of the others, the man to his right.

He was maybe thirty years of age, maybe not quite, dark hair in a queue at his nape, with the look of a wolf – no, not quite. Not that brave, not that free. The look of a cornered badger – mean and clever but also somewhat cowardly. He said, "Yes, Father?"

"The boy's sword," Vortigern demanded, and Cenred pulled Arthur's blade from his belt, handing it to his father hilt-first. Vortigern pretended to study it – Arthur wasn't fooled. The general had probably taken time for a perusal of the weapon before ordering the bucket of water dumped over their captive's unconscious head. Arthur wondered briefly where Leon was, if he was watching, if he recognized Arthur and what he would do. "Nice blade," Vortigern commented in a raspy voice. "You say it's yours?"

"It's mine." Arthur felt the hairs on his neck stand up, warning him of – what?

Vortigern took one long step forward, shoving the upright hilt into Arthur's face so suddenly he drew back – and found his arms caught fast in the grip of the straw-haired sling-wielder and his red-haired companion. "It's a Camelot blade," the general growled. He rubbed one great, dirty thumb over the series of circles set on the pommel, the device that Arthur, as a young boy, decided represented the sun and its rays. "That's used for Uther's boys; we have none like it."

"He's too young for a knight," Cenred sneered.

"But not for a scout," Vortigern decided. "What d'you think, boy? Shall we have your head here and now?" Arthur, though his pride would not allow him to beg or argue or insist upon his half-truth bluff, nevertheless couldn't help trying to yank himself free. Vortigern's moustaches twitched, and it took Arthur a moment to realize the man was smiling. "No," the big general drawled. "We'll hold him until the druids come. He can watch the show, and carry the tale back to his warlord."

"Where do you want him, sir?" the red-haired man said.

Vortigern snorted, his interest in Arthur waning once the decision had been made. "One of the dug-huts," he said. "Make sure he's bound securely." The two holding Arthur's arms tugged him off to one side, as Cenred stepped to his father and began to speak in a voice too low for Arthur to hear.

Arthur didn't put up much resistance. They intended to keep him until the ritual, anyway. That meant he had two choices, as he saw it. He could be a passive observer as they intended, and return to the ranks of his father's army upon his release, carry the tale assured of his personal safety. Or he could prepare himself to carry out his self-imposed task – to disrupt, delay, to _stop_ the ritual if at all possible, no matter the risk.

The druids had evidently not arrived with their gathered _resources_ yet. He had some time. And the scouts that Uther officially dispatched should not be too far behind him.

He was taken to one of the larger structures, a crude log-and-mud hut without windows, the door slightly crooked on leather hinges. The hut was unlit, and uninhabited, though there was a straw mattress at the far end, and a table on the side wall next to it, an uneven stump for a chair.

Arthur was pushed to a sitting position and his hands bound behind him to one of the supporting timbers. Neither man said anything to him, and he felt no need to break the silence. They closed the door when they left; there was no lock. There was no need for a lock. He sat for a moment in the quiet solitude, until the thundering of his heartbeat calmed. He wasn't dead; he wasn't even injured. He hadn't – completely – failed – yet. But his brave saga was sounding more and more like a cautionary tale of foolhardiness to his inner ear.

Ye gods. As much as he longed for home and family, it made him cringe to imagine what his father would have to say.

He rubbed the rope of his binding experimentally against the rough bark of the post, feeling bits flake off and shower on his hands. It wasn't tight, but it was secure. And the discomfort of the position was his own fault. He wondered how long it would take to wear the ropes through, rubbing, if it was even possible. And then what? Take a passing soldier by surprise, steal his sword, fight his way to a horse and gallop to freedom?

It sounded like a good plan, a brave plan, a heroes' plan. But – how could one man fight through hundreds of enemies – and then ride away without being recaptured? Maybe at night, if he was very quiet, and there were only a few men to overcome, and it could be done without raising an alarm…

But then, he would have ignored the task he came to do – stop the ritual. He rubbed the rope again, absently and with no great intent. He was to be a witness, yes, but what could he do about the ritual without a weapon? He'd be bound and guarded throughout the ceremony, probably. Powerless.

Arthur huffed. Practically speaking, his best course of action was to stay alive, to hope on the other scouts' arrival disrupting Vortigern and the druids. But that didn't mean he couldn't be awaiting an opportunity, in the meanwhile.

He leaned his right shoulder against the front wall of the hut, craned his neck until he found the largest of the chinks between the logs forming the wall, where mud had dried and cracked and fallen away. Most of the clear center of camp was within his range of vision, though not the general and his son. He continued to observe, absorbing details of armament and attitude, routine and schedule and supply.

Arthur had been watching the wordless unfolding of tedious camp life for over an hour – though it was difficult to guess the passage of time in the dim stifling hut – long enough for his conscious mind to drift to speculation of what his absence had caused in Camelot. What Uther thought, what Morgana thought, what Pellinor and Owaine and –

His attention sharpened, alerted by a perceptible change in the men and soldiers in his view. Something had caught their attention as well – interest and curiosity, though, not the immediate and decisive action of a physical threat. Vortigern's men poured into the camp-center, orienting themselves around the bearskin-cloaked general - his son at his side, striding in from Arthur's left - and around a secondary party entering the camp from the west. Vortigern halted to wait, forcing the visitors to come to him, and his fighters drew back. Arthur saw, through the chink in the log-wall, through a gap in the crowd, two figures step forward to meet Vortigern and Cenred.

Both were cloaked and hooded in the fashion of the druids, one a handful of inches shorter, trailing the other subserviently. The foremost figure shucked his cowl, revealing the gray hair and beard of a mature man – he and Vortigern greeted each other with cautious familiarity. Reluctant allies.

Arthur squinted, pressing forehead and nose into the logs of the hut wall. Vortigern looked displeased, he was questioning the druid. He was disappointed, Arthur thought, fiercely glad. Perhaps the druid was a messenger, sent on ahead of the rest of the contingent for the ritual? Perhaps there was a delay in this gathering of resources?

The druid's posture and gestures were placating, his explanation meant to reassure the general. They both looked at the shorter cloaked figure at once.

Whoever it was, stood motionless, head down, as though completely oblivious. There was something – unnerving, Arthur thought, about that figure. Boots and a cloak and that was all anyone could see.

Vortigern's hand shot out, entering the shadow of the hood, forcing it to lift, turning it to the light so the general could study the face. Arthur could see only Vortigern's, expressionless in that moment of scrutiny. He dropped his hand, the hood sank once again. Vortigern spoke to the druid – not pleased, but accepting of whatever unexpected circumstance the man had brought news of. He gestured – right toward Arthur, it seemed.

He jerked back reflexively, before reminding himself that it would be nearly impossible for anyone outside the hut to see him, watching or not. He leaned his eye to the gap once again, to see the red-haired soldier leading the shorter of the cloaked figures toward the hut where Arthur was held captive. Beyond them, Vortigern and the druid stepped slowly out of Arthur's view, deep in conversation, followed by Cenred.

Arthur shifted to keep the two approaching in view. It seemed to him that the red-haired soldier treated the second visitor with an odd mix of deference and revulsion – a guest or another prisoner? – not unlike the consideration he'd once witnessed a patrol give to a passing leper on the road.

And once that comparison had entered his mind, he could not rid himself of the irrational apprehension that filled him as the figures loomed – there could be anything at all under that hood, any disease, any age, any disfigurement. The soldier opened the door and stood aside to let the other pass.

He pulled his feet back involuntarily as the hidden person entered the hut. Without a word, the soldier pulled the door shut again, leaving Arthur bound and helpless and alone with the uncanny newcomer. His pulse quickened, and he did his best to keep his breathing inaudible.

The other didn't seem to notice, just stood for several moments, before drifting to the opposite wall, to the table. It stopped, it turned. It sank down into a shapeless huddle of cloak.

Arthur watched warily, all senses alert for any possible action or reaction, preparing what minimal self-defense he might be capable of, in case of an attack, and – he was caught entirely by surprise.

The cloaked figure trembled. It sniffed. It gulped and – stifled a sob. All fear left Arthur in a rush. His unexpected companion was _crying_.

**A/N: If you're curious what elements are borrowed from the legends, and what I've added/manipulated, just ask, I don't mind admitting… :P**


	4. Magic's Soul

**Chapter 4: Magic's Soul**

_Take magic's soul to all men's cost_

_If blood be spilled then all is lost_

_Lord's true key in plainest sight_

_Becoming prince set all aright._

…..*…..

Merlin was exhausted.

The strength and fortitude and determination he'd gathered and stored as the sun rose drained as that heavenly body began its descent to the earth once again, his spirits flagging as his body's reserves of energy had been used. During their brief rest for a noon meal which Merlin had no appetite for, Ruadan had questioned him – kindly, but awkwardly and impersonally – on his training. Just another instructor familiarizing himself with a new pupil – but pretence only. Merlin answered, polite but vague, glad for the distraction but unable to scrape enthusiasm for or meaning from the conversation.

And then they walked – no, _marched_ – onward to the east. Farther than Merlin had ever walked in a day – not that it mattered much, anymore – but as his legs tired and ached and his lungs and side burned, he found his intended nobility souring to a childish resentment of everything and everyone around him.

"There is the hill," Ruadan said at last. "Dinas Emrys." He caught the movement of the elder's gesture, but didn't look up.

And by the time they were hailed, and stopped to explain their purpose in Vortigern's camp, Merlin found he lacked all curiosity, any inclination to raise his eyes from the toes of his boots. He was _tired_, to his very soul. He wanted to be left alone, to release the emotion that throbbed behind his eyes and swelled in his chest.

"Bring a message to the general – the druids are here!"

Ruadan's boots, the hem of his cloak moved. Merlin followed, barely noticing when the grass and leaves and bracken of the forest floor gave way to the boot-packed earth of the camp. Dinas Emrys loomed to his left; he felt it like a sentient presence, watching him. Waiting for him.

"Ruadan! You're early!" someone said. It was a brash voice, with the rasp of someone who'd damaged their throat – Merlin thought whimsically – bellowing one too many battlefield orders.

"Fortune favored my errand," Ruadan explained. "I found I had no need to wait upon the clans' decision – or upon a lengthy process of casting lots."

"Explain," the voice of authority demanded. "You said – twelve would be necessary."

"This one is the equivalent of twelve," Ruadan said. "General! I would not lie to you! The boy is uniquely powerful – and willing – the ritual will be complete, and successful, I assure you."

A hand shot out and gripped Merlin's chin, forcing his head up, to tilt toward the better light as the sun's last rays faded from the sky. Merlin met the general's eyes – cold, calculating eyes – with no strength or will left for resistance, no desire to protest his worth whatsoever. Yet there was still one last spark of endurance that met the other's skepticism.

_I care not for your opinion. I am as I am. Accept, or reject, it matters nothing to me, anymore._

Vortigern grunted, and released him, and Merlin had no reason to hold his head up any longer. "Willing," the general repeated gruffly. "When, Ruadan?"

"Tomorrow. Noon. If you don't mind, general, perhaps he can be given a place to rest, a meal to eat? And you and I can discuss details."

"Fine. Take him in that hut."

There was the slightest uncertain pause before another voice said, "Yes, sir." Another pair of boots shuffled, and Merlin followed. There was no other course of action open to him, anyway.

More packed earth. A heightened sense from the soldier of everything Merlin had borne for a lifetime – wary uncertainty, grudging respect, but mostly distaste at the proximity to a power not understood, and a desire to be elsewhere. Resentment of Merlin for provoking the confusion of feelings merely by existing.

The dim hulk of a roughly-built structure was reached, a door was hauled to the side. Merlin stepped forward into the greater darkness, was left alone. He took a deep breath; his legs began to tremble, to give way. He stumbled forward – oh, why bother – and sank to the ground, overwhelmed with the sense of utter abandonment.

He gasped to contain the roil of emotions, felt tears upon his cheeks – and through the infinite emptiness that surrounded him, he heard a voice.

"Hey – are you all right?"

He gulped, and the sense of isolation fled. He lifted his face instinctively toward the voice, and found that the interior of his prison wasn't the tarry pitch of the abyss, but the pleasant gray gloom of fading twilight. An older boy sat on the floor in the corner, knees drawn up and hands tucked behind him – an odd way to sit, wasn't he uncomfortable? – watching him with a wary concern. Merlin completely forgot that he'd been asked a question, such a strange surprise was this boy.

The boy asked another, speaking more slowly, and with a deliberate attempt at solicitude. "Are you hurt? Are you scared?"

Merlin thought, _Are you real_? Perhaps the strain, the responsibility, had proved too much for him, and he was imagining a companion. "Who are you?" he returned, puzzled.

The boy cocked his head, as if deciding whether to answer truthfully, and shifted his position, dropping his knees to cross his legs before him – and Merlin saw that his awkward position was not by choice, that his hands were secured behind him. _Of course my imagined friend would be captive, also_.

He crept forward cautiously, across the bare dirt floor – the boy pulled away from him, straightening back against the supporting beam of the hut that he was tied to, a strange look of reluctant fascination on his face. Merlin put out one hand, palm down, paused to reconsider, to reassure, then touched the boy's knee. Briefly, but enough to know him for a real person. Merlin was pleased. His time was trickling out like sand in an hourglass, but he found he'd rather have company with a stranger, than be alone, even if it was a prejudiced stranger who preferred a druid to keep his distance.

A young man, captive in Vortigern's camp. What did that mean? He scrutinized the older boy, entertaining momentarily the idea that he'd committed some crime within the ranks – but no. His reaction to Merlin, his state of captivity – Merlin guessed that he was one of Lord Pendragon's men, a scout or a spy, who'd been captured. He wondered what Vortigern's plans were for the captive; it would be a pity if he were facing death. Also.

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

"Hey," Arthur said, feeling stupid but not knowing what else to do when faced with a weeping stranger, "are you all right?"

The figure startled; the hood lifted enough to tell Arthur he was the object of the other's attention, but there was no reply. The slight stature, the servile attitude, and the emotional release made Arthur think the druid's companion was a girl, or a child.

He tried again, pitching his voice for one of those two possibilities. "Are you hurt? Are you scared?"

There was no response. He began to wonder if his first fears were more correct, that the being hidden beneath the cloak bore some physical deformity, some mental instability or lack. Then the figure spoke, barely more than a whisper. "Who are you?" The voice was husky for a girl's, yet too high for a man's.

Arthur tilted his head, his eyes trying to pierce the gloom to locate some defining feature in the other figure, trying to decide whether he might be sharing space with a dangerous enemy or a potential ally.

The cloaked figure moved, creeping toward Arthur. What the hell? There was nowhere for him to retreat – the fear of the unknown spiked in him again. A hand was outstretched, hesitated. Long fingers and knobby knuckles – Arthur thought, _if it's a girl then it's an _ugly_ girl_ – and the fingertips brushed Arthur's kneecap lightly.

He was nearly convinced, now, that the stranger suffered from some mental deficiency. That didn't guarantee Arthur's safety, necessarily, but it did present certain possibilities for a little subtle exploitation. "Do you mind letting me see your face?" he proposed gently, unsure if maybe the face bore some grotesque abnormality – but seeing a hideous face was much better than not seeing a face at all. "It's much more comfortable to hold a conversation if –"

Two things happened at once to completely jar Arthur from his thought. The figure raised both hands to push back the hood – exposing the darkly-swirled tattoos of a magic-wielding druid on the pale forearms – and eyes gleamed fiery gold from the darkness barely three feet away.

Arthur's mind and body reacted completely separately from one another. His mind said, _the companion of a druid, of course this one is a druid, too, and most of them have magic, after all, don't they_. His mind registered the candle on the table flaring to life. His mind absorbed the tangle of black hair, through which the tips of the ears poked, the extraordinary bone structure of the face and the deep clear blue of the eyes that made him think _boy_ and _faerie_ at the same time.

His mouth yelped, "What the hell!" and his body reacted with an instinctive scramble backward, thoroughly shocked and immediately on guard against the sudden and unexpected display of magic.

The boy looked startled himself by Arthur's reaction – if in fact it was a boy and not some fey magic creature. "I'm sorry," he said, holding out his hands – which didn't help to reassure Arthur at all. "I won't do it again."

The words came unbidden to Arthur's mouth. "You promise?"

The boy looked at him, considering, then shrugged as if it made no difference to him. "Yes. I promise." He drew crossing lines on the left breast of his cloak. "No magic without your permission – satisfied?"

He watched the boy watch him. At least he was lucid and articulate – a potential and unsuspecting source of information. Arthur said, "So you're here for the ritual?"

The boy's lips twitched in a cynical smile. "I _am_ the ritual," he said.

"I'm sorry, I don't follow," Arthur told him politely. "Perhaps you could explain?"

The boy stood, moved back to the straw mattress to snatch a few loose pieces, and returned to sit cross-legged facing Arthur, with a yard of packed-dirt floor between them. He placed one straw down. "Having magic isn't a yes-or-no question," he said. "It's a long range of gray. At this end you have people with no skill, ability, strength, inclination. Couldn't do the simplest spell if they spent their whole life trying for it." He glanced up at Arthur through the dark fringe of hair that flopped over his eyes.

He seemed to require some sort of acknowledgement, so Arthur said, "No magic at this end, right."

"All throughout," the boy dragged one long forefinger away from that straw, "you have people with increasing innate ability, capacity, drive to learn, focus and skill and training. Yes?"

Arthur nodded. "The same is true for a warrior," he said. The boy cocked one eyebrow, and Arthur remembered that druids didn't go in for fighting, much.

"At the other end," the boy laid down another straw, "are the most powerful magic-users. Born witches and warlocks doing magic in their cradle –"

"In their cradle," Arthur scoffed.

The boy said, unoffended, "The earlier it manifests the stronger it is, evidently."

"I don't believe it," Arthur protested. "My father says all magic is learned, as just another form of power and manipulation and influence."

"Your father?" the boy said softly, and Arthur bit his tongue, reminding himself that they two were on opposing sides in this conflict. But he didn't press Arthur for an answer, instead tapped the first straw. "I'm guessing your father is here," he said ironically.

"And you?" Arthur said, somewhat belligerently.

Again, the boy took no offense. "I'm getting to that. If you understand the concept of the gradation of magic-users – that's the potential – then you'll understand the concept of the range of the means of magic – spells, incantations, rituals – that's the actual." He tapped the low-end straw. "A spell is a word or two to direct the intent, to manipulate the magic inherent in the world. An incantation –" his finger dragged to the middle once again – "is more complicated. A series of movements, a sustained effect." His finger moved on to the high-end again. "The ritual is the most complex, usually using physical elements as well as the verbal, for a large or dramatic or permanent change."

Once again he paused, and Arthur nodded, feeling a little overwhelmed at the oddity of the situation. But really, what else did he have to do, other than get a lesson from a younger druid boy? And maybe some idea of what to expect, how he might yet prevent the ritual from being accomplished.

"So, you have the sorcerer, and you have the magic. The stronger the sorcerer, the stronger the magic, yes? Any given practitioner can enter into an agreement with another – or several, I guess – to combine strength and skill and so on, and increase the potency of the result."

"Like fighting in pairs," Arthur said, drawn into the explanation in spite of himself.

The boy was pleased. "Yes, exactly," he said. "And – just as a magic-user has to be at a certain point on this range to be able to accomplish the more advanced spell-work, there are certain rituals that can be enhanced by blood magic, and certain ones –" his finger touched the high-end straw briefly – "which require it."

For a moment Arthur couldn't speak. He wondered if he'd heard correctly. "Blood magic," he repeated, trying to keep his voice even.

"It's a spectrum also," the boy said. "At the low end is animal blood – birds, usually, used for, say, divination. Here in the middle is ordinary human blood, and at the far end, the magical blood of the strongest witches and warlocks." He caught Arthur's grimace before Arthur could control it. "It's not usually like that. This would be blood measured by drops – and almost always given willingly. Only in the very darkest of rituals –" Arthur noticed that his finger drifted beyond the straw limit – "is blood taken against a victim's will."

"I see," Arthur managed, having to breathe through his nose to control the unsettled heaving of his stomach.

"It is not so different from your warrior comparison," the boy said, watching him with a faint smile. "Your soldiers, your knights, they are willing to pay for the victory – the… desired outcome of the matter at hand – with their blood, are they not? Even with their lives…" He dropped his head again to look at the two straws and the distance between them.

Arthur looked down also, having to admit that the boy had a point. It occurred to him that knights and warriors, whose values and principles he himself would fight to uphold, might be considered barbaric by the druid clans. And really, it was blood either way, wasn't it? "So," he said slowly, "when you said, you _are_ the ritual…"

The boy gave him a small, private smile. "What Vortigern is asking requires a sacrifice," he said. "The ground of Dinas Emrys, being sacred, demands – oh, let's say an apology for trespassing, permission for use, and – I don't know, a fundamental change in the earth so that the sacred releases its claim on the site, so it can be used for any given human purpose. In return payment is made."

"Sacrifice." Arthur thought, quite possibly, that he might open his eyes any minute and find himself back in his own bed. Surely this was a nightmare. For such a young boy with such an earnest expression to know these things and explain them in such a matter-of-fact way – Arthur thought bleakly, _my father was right_. The druids had to be insane even to think like that – he shuddered. But what did it mean if it _worked_?

"The original plan was for twelve," the boy said, as easily as if he were detailing the preparations for a routine hunting trip or an upcoming meal. "One for each hour of day and night, old enough for confirmed magic, young enough for – well, young enough."

"_Twelve_," Arthur said thickly, swallowing. He was horrified, and sickened. He wished it was not his duty to listen to this.

"Twelve of average strength and potential," the boy murmured, drumming his fingers between the two straws. "Or – me."

"You?" Arthur echoed. He seemed to have lost the ability for original speech in his shock.

The boy's smile was self-deprecating. "This is me, evidently." He touched the straw at the highest end of the range. "Twelve sacrifices becomes – one." He looked at Arthur a moment. "You'd do it, wouldn't you? To save twelve lives, you'd give your own?"

Arthur stared at him. He couldn't decide if the strange druid boy truly grasped the enormity of what he suggested, or if he merely repeated lessons memorized but not comprehended. If maybe this whole conversation was an elaborate practical joke, and any minute the boy would be laughing at Arthur for a gullible fool.

Because he couldn't quite realize how a boy barely out of childhood could agree – could walk of their own free will to certain death – hell, no wonder the boy had collapsed into a heap in tears once he thought himself alone. "What will they do to you?" he blurted.

The boy placed more straws on the ground to form the rough figure of a man, upside-down to him and right-side up to Arthur. "Firstly they'll slit the jugular vein," he said, "allowing the blood to drain into a container, which will then be sprinkled throughout the site. Then the limbs will be detached," he mimed the action with the figure, separating the straw arms and legs with the smallest twitch of his forefinger, the simplicity of the movement at odds with the envisioned brutality of the action. "And buried to the four points of the compass, at the perimeter. Head and heart will be buried in the center." He swirled his finger around so the straws were jumbled insignificantly, and then looked up at Arthur with a faint embarrassment. "I would be in a lot of trouble if the elders knew I told you all this, you know," he said. "You're not supposed to reveal the lore to outsiders."

"You mean, more trouble than you're already in?" Arthur asked incredulously.

The boy looked at him in surprise. And then he began to laugh. Ye gods, laughter on the eve of his death – he was the strangest boy Arthur had ever met.

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

Merlin laughed until tears came to his eyes. The expression of the older boy betrayed his revulsion for the worst and rarest of the druids' ceremonies, a feeling Merlin whole-heartedly agreed with. And yet, in the midst of the gruesomely calm discussion of his own death and dismemberment, the boy could make a sarcastic comment and lighten Merlin's heart.

He might as well have just told Merlin, _Melodramatic, aren't we? Don't take yourself so seriously_. It was exactly what he needed. Even better than the distraction of the academic discussion of the ritual, as though it had nothing to do with him…

The boy watched him as if he'd lost his mind. "Why do you do it?" he asked. Merlin opened his mouth to remind him, _Twelve or one_, and he added, "I mean, why do you care if the tower gets built? Why are you cooperating with Vortigern?"

"Freedom," he said softly. "I know that sounds – simple, or foolish, like I'm trying to be – heroic, or something. But – peace. And safety. For my friends, my family, my clan."

The older boy had a strange look of reluctant agreement. "Are you sure this is the way?" he said quietly.

For a single instant, Merlin doubted. With the power he felt but never used, he could fight back. He could live, he could protect the others like Gilli and Sefa, so no one would be sacrificed – then he blinked, and the moment of comfortable camaraderie was gone. Of course the older boy would say that. If his loyalty lay with Pendragon and Camelot, it would be his task to disrupt Vortigern's plans.

Merlin retreated until his back met the opposite wall, drew his knees up in front of his chest and hugged them. He said nothing. All the power in the world meant nothing if you weren't willing to bow to legitimate authority. The ritual would go on, as the elders had decided, and the others would be spared, and Vortigern would supply the promised protection to all the druid clans.

The boy appeared to be struggling with himself, but just when he decided to begin speaking, the door opened.

Candlelight flickered over the uncertain expression and red hair of one of Vortigern's soldiers, the darkness of nightfall behind him. He looked both Merlin and the other boy over thoroughly before he seemed satisfied that there was nothing for him to worry about – the prisoner still bound, the ritual participant still present. Then Merlin noticed that he carried a plate in one hand and a beaker in the other, and as he stepped forward to set them on the table, his place at the door was filled by a fellow-soldier with the alertly-bored expression of a guard on duty but expecting no trouble. In the middle of Vortigern's camp, what could either of them do?

The second soldier disappeared as the first backed through the doorway. He gave them each another look, snorted in some private amusement, then pulled the door shut once more.

"If you're as powerful as you say," the older boy spoke deliberately – and now his face gave nothing away – "why don't you untie me? I imagine you'd have little trouble getting us clear of the camp – and then Camelot's army might well prevent Vortigern from going through with any other sacrifices."

Merlin made a scornful sound. "And why would I betray someone my elders have chosen as an ally, to join with a man who'd happily watch me burn?"

"He wouldn't," the older boy protested stubbornly. "I'd – I'd bet that if you helped him, some arrangement –"

"No," Merlin said firmly. Maybe he'd been wrong about having company, this night. His own will to live resisted the decision enough without him having to argue it verbally as well. He remembered he was exhausted, and laid his left temple down on his kneecap.

"Hey," the boy said. Merlin didn't look up. "Are you hungry? Aren't you going to eat?" Merlin shook his head without lifting it from his knees. "I doubt if they bring _me_ anything," the captive added, with a touch of humor. "You mind if I eat it?" Merlin wriggled his shoulders in a negative shrug. The boy's tone, when he spoke his next question, was deceptively casual, "How about untying me for dinner, then?"

Merlin looked at him. A young man, a fighter – _probably trained to kill since birth_, he thought with sarcasm. And possibly thinking, Merlin could not accomplish the ritual if he were already dead. He'd promised not to do magic; he had no doubt that without its protection, the older boy could kill him with his bare hands and a minimum of fuss. So he'd be an oath-breaker, or he'd be dead.

"No, I don't think so," he said neutrally.

The other shrugged as if it didn't matter to him, and looked away. Merlin put his head down on his arms again, but in a position where he could watch the captive surreptitiously. The older boy shifted his weight, rolled his head on his shoulders. He swallowed with difficulty, and tried to moisten his lips. In the quiet of the hut, Merlin heard the growl of an empty belly, and it wasn't his. The boy made a face to himself.

"When did they take you?" Merlin asked.

"A couple hours before you arrived." The boy watched Merlin stand, remove his cloak, and place it on the table.

He carried the plate – boiled beef, without knife or fork – a hunk of bread somewhat soggy on the bottom from drawing up the weak broth spilled during serving - and the beaker back to the boy's side. Taking one quick swallow of the watered wine in the beaker, he positioned it for the other's use.

The boy didn't move, just stared at him. "Call it a compromise," Merlin said.

And so, with the captive's hands remaining bound behind him, and Merlin crouched close enough to touch, he held the bread first, and then the chunk of cooled, unappetizing beef for the other boy to take bites from. He swallowed and cleared his throat and said, as if he wished he didn't have to, "Thank you."

"Don't mention it," Merlin said. Watching and helping the boy eat woke a little of Merlin's hunger also, and he managed a small bite for every three of the other's. They ate in companionable silence, until the plate and beaker were both empty.

As Merlin balanced the beaker on the plate and made to get to his feet, the boy said abruptly, "What's your name?"

Merlin huffed a little bitter chuckle. What did it matter, at this point, what his _name_ was? "I'm Merlin," he said. "You?"

"Arthur."

He nodded. The traditional it-was-nice-to-meet-you follow-up would be awkward in the situation, but surely there was something else he could say, even if it was –

Oh. Wait. Oh, no. It couldn't possibly… As isolated as life in the druid clan could be, enough of the most important details of the outside world filtered in as gossip for Merlin to know that the name of Uther Pendragon's son was… the warlord's son… the man who wanted to be _king_… which would make Arthur…

_Becoming prince set all aright… with hair of sun and gaze of sky_… The dishes tumbled from his fingers as he leaned forward, intently staring.

"What is it?" Arthur said, sounding a little annoyed.

He said, still numb with shock, "Your eyes are _blue_."

Arthur snorted, clearly uncomfortable with how close Merlin was. "So are yours. So what?"

Merlin shook his head. He couldn't speak. His whole world seemed to have tipped sideways. He wished that Iseldir had come, instead of Ruadan. He knew what Ruadan would tell him to do. He knew what Arthur would tell him to do.

What he didn't know was what was _right_ for him to do. He repeated the prophecy again to himself. Was it the height of arrogance to think that he would play a part? And what would it be? _The scope of your destiny may be as great as that of your magic_… _I believe it is your destiny to_ go…

"I think…" Merlin retreated in a daze, bumping his hip on a corner of the table. Vaguely he rejected the straw mattress, filthy and questionable as it was – why does it matter, if this is your last night of sleep? – to curl up on the bare floor, facing the wall, and draw his cloak up over him.

He heard Arthur say, "Merlin?" once, and might've heard him sigh, a moment later.

Merlin squeezed his eyes shut, focusing on the rhythm of his heart-rate, matching his breathing to slow it down. The hard firm earth beneath him, the warmth of his latent magic to embrace and comfort him. Nothing else. There was nothing else.

In his dream, Merlin perched high in a tree. He smelled the pine resin as it was released by a warming sun, and the wind blew steady in his face, ruffling his hair. He straddled the branch and lifted his arms to the sides, raised them above his head, fingers spread to let the wind blow between them. He closed his eyes and tipped his face to the sun and breathed and breathed – and when he opened his eyes, he was no longer bound to the earth by the tree, but _flying_.

It didn't matter how. It didn't matter that he somehow remained seated and upright and his arms didn't move but he was flying and he was free.

_Merlin_.

_Not now, please_, he pleaded. _Don't I deserve peace and freedom, too_?

_Merlin_. The voice sounded sad and amused at once. _Son of Balinor_.

All the light and movement went out of the air, but not the impression of the immensity of space around him. He was standing now, watching the stars come out as pinpoints of light, watching them dance and sparkle, move and rearrange. The glow increased and drew nearer, and he identified the glittering constellation as a dragon. It came closer and closer; it was enormous, and yet it was still a good distance away, powerful leathery wings beating in sure strokes. Merlin's heart leaped at the wild and dominant independence and yearned to join with it.

"Merlin!" It was another voice, much closer, and human.

He snarled at it unhappily – _leave me alone! Can't I escape even for a moment_! – and woke on the hard dirt floor, tangled in his cloak, sobbing with the loss of the dream.

The voice, sternly commanding, rumbled from the earth beneath him, the mount of Dinas Emrys itself roaring out, _MERLIN_!

He scrambled up, and it was not enough. Still his feet touched the ground that trembled with the voice, the imperious summons. He whirled and leaped up on the table. The candle rocked precariously as he gripped the edge and stared at the floor as if it would erupt and release – _something_ – to come forth.

The captive boy – Arthur – was watching him warily, his eyes a clearer blue in the dark circles of exhaustion. _Merlin_, he saw the older boy's lips say, _Are you all right_?

Iseldir's voice, _Such gifts are not random – there is a purpose_. Hunith's voice, _You should have this, it was your father's… Your destiny is calling you there_…

_Merlin_.

"Stop it, stop it!" he whispered, covering his ears with his hands though it did no good; the voice was in his mind. "Leave me alone, what do you want?"

_Freedom – freedom! To look upon the last of my kin – loose my chains! The prophecy, Merlin – take care…_

"I am the last," he said, mumbling into his knees as he crouched on the table. "Be wary of Dinas Emrys hill…" A sob caught painfully in his throat, and he gasped to breathe.

"Merlin?" Arthur, again. "It's all right – the earthquake is done." He looked at the older boy blankly. _Earthquake_? Arthur spoke slowly, "It's over. We're fine." He paused, then said, "Did you have a nightmare?"

Oh, it was tearing him apart. That urge for free flight, to hurl himself into the sweet clear of magic-washed space warred bitterly with the knowledge that he had chosen to allow himself to be bound to the dark and to the earth forever. And now – now he was not _sure_. Never easy, the choice was no longer simple.

He felt tears slip down his face as he met Arthur's gaze, and nodded. A nightmare. His life was the nightmare. And what would be the waking of it?


	5. If Blood Be Spilled

**Chapter 5: If Blood Be Spilled**

_Take magic's soul to all men's cost_

_If blood be spilled then all is lost_

_Lord's true key in plainest sight_

_Becoming prince set all aright._

…_..*….._

Arthur dozed on and off after the earthquake – midnight, he thought he remembered Leon saying – Leon, where was Leon? Did he know Arthur was there? Did the other scouts arrive – or would they tomorrow? Had his father guessed where he'd gone?

His position, while uncomfortable, was not actually painful. Of course he'd have preferred to stretch and walk around and lie down, but slumped against a post, chin to his chest, Arthur managed to fall asleep more than once.

Merlin, the odd druid boy, was a motionless huddle of black hair and enveloping cloak on the ground. When Arthur was not sleeping, he was studying his slumbering companion in captivity, trying to figure him out. It seemed to Arthur childishly naïve to believe that sprinkling blood and burying body parts could stop earthquakes or appease sacred ground. And yet young Merlin also showed a mature stoicism in accepting the fate presented to him by the ruling elders of his clan. Ignorant or clever, brave or foolish, the tears and the nightmares and the calm preparation – the boy was intriguingly complex.

He'd refused to untie Arthur to eat, suspicion of Arthur's ulterior motives clear from his expression – although Arthur himself had discarded that option almost as quickly as it occurred to him. He couldn't kill someone – especially so young and relatively defenseless as this boy – to prevent him from doing something wrong. _Wrong_? Yes, he decided. Even if the druids' judgment was correct and the ritual worked and Vortigern kept his promise to protect the clans, even leaving his father's goals for the peace and good of Camelot as a whole, admirable as they may be, and the willingness of the sacrifice himself, aside, it was _wrong_.

But then an instant later Merlin had knelt at Arthur's side to feed him his own dinner with his own fingers. It should have been excruciatingly awkward, but the boy had an easy unselfconscious manner and served him with a compassion – _served_? _compassion_? yes, those were the right words – that in turn humbled him.

And then, more contradiction. The boy who hadn't seemed a bit apprehensive facing a brutal, gory death was frightened half-incoherent by the midnight earth-tremors, even climbing up on the table in an absurd attempt to get away. He'd mumbled and shuddered – there had even been tears on his face, Arthur was sure of it – before he'd calmed enough to hear Arthur and respond, and finally resume his place on the floor… and then he hadn't moved since.

Dawn light filtered through cracks between the logs of the hut. One sliver of light lay across the back of one of Merlin's outflung hands. Another rippled over the creases in Arthur's right boot. A third stretched under the abandoned beaker, dropped by Merlin the night before – startled at the color of Arthur's eyes, of all things.

Arthur grimaced to himself, trying to shake more sense into his tired mind. How absolutely ridiculous to panic over the color of someone's eyes, he thought.

He shifted his weight, trying to stretch what muscles he could, but with all his scratching and scraping, Merlin didn't even stir. Arthur thought to speak to try to wake him, decided the boy was better off spending the time in peaceful oblivion, then worried that something was wrong when more time passed and he didn't rouse by himself.

The shuffling of boots alerted him seconds before the door was unlatched and pulled open to flood the hut's interior with sunlight. Two soldiers entered, clumsily in each other's way. One bent to retrieve the fallen dishes, giving Arthur a measuring glance before dismissing him. The stub of the guttered candle was taken also.

The second soldier said to Merlin, "Boy. Wake up."

"Leave him alone, why don't you?" Arthur said boldly.

The soldier gave him a dirty look. He leaned down, hand outstretched – then changed his mind and prodded the younger boy's shoulder with the toe of his boot. Merlin's body rocked under the pressure, then he tensed and moved on his own, dropping to his back and opening his eyes. Arthur cringed, anticipating the moment when realization of what day it was struck the boy, but his expression never changed.

"It's time," the soldier added, speaking down into Merlin's face. "The elder has called for you to begin preparations." Merlin stared up blankly for a moment, then rolled to push himself to his feet without comment.

"Just a minute," Arthur protested. "I'm supposed to go, too. Vortigern said I was to witness the ritual."

The soldier with the dishes shrugged unconcernedly. "Weren't told anything 'bout you," he said.

Merlin picked up his cloak, shook it out, then turned it over his shoulders, tucking his chin to tie the lacing.

"Merlin," Arthur said. He felt more anxious than Merlin looked. "You don't have to do this. Please." Aside from the considerations of his father and Camelot, the war and the tower, something in Arthur rebelled at the thought that the life of this boy – so brave, so vulnerable, so intelligent, trusting, canny, guiltless – by all the gods, _special_ – would be over in a few short hours. The long-fingered hands stilled, the bright blue eyes dull and vacant – _that_ was wrong.

"Come along," the soldier said with a touch of impatience.

"Merlin." Arthur tried again. This time the younger boy looked at him, paused in the act of raising the sheltering hood. From that instant of contact, Arthur thought, _He's_ _not _sure_, anymore, there's hope_! – and then a mask of resignation settled over the young druid, and the hood and cloak shadowed the whole figure.

"No, wait!" Arthur said desperately, suddenly afraid that the butchery was imminent and the ritual he was expected to view would be the blood-sprinkling and body-burying. "Please!"

The second soldier kicked at him twice, more in warning than in malice, and the door swung shut behind them. Arthur bent his head to peer through the chink so rapidly he bumped his nose on the log wall and tears filled his eyes. He blinked them away, and the slight, hooded figure of the druid boy stepped out of sight.

His heart was thudding like it did when he stepped into the sparring circle to face an opponent. His instructors watching to point out mistakes, the other squires keen to see a failure from the warlord's son. He had to be the fastest, the strongest, the smartest, every time. Or suffer the humiliation of his father's disappointment. His father… would likely have managed to free himself, and strangled the druid vital to the ritual.

Arthur kicked his boot-heel hard on the dirt floor, cursing. _Failed. You failed_. Determination rushed through him, washing away the discomfort and fatigue of the night. He leaned forward, drawing the rope taut, beginning to rub it against the rough bark of the post. He would be free. He would be there, wherever the ritual, the sacrifice, would be carried out. He would – he would stop it somehow. Or… or die trying!

He rubbed most of the bark from the post and smoothed the wood beneath without accomplishing the slightest give to the rope when he strained on it. He was sure that several splinters had stuck into his flesh, but the raw chafing of the binding muted any sharper pains. Then the door creaked open again, and the straw-haired warrior gave him a gap-toothed smile.

"Thought we forgot you?" the man said. "Come, scout – we got an eyeful planned for you." He showed Arthur the knife in his belt, a short, wide blade, then knelt at Arthur's side. "Just remember, if you want to live to report back to the Pendragon, be very careful not to give me an excuse to use that, hm?"

"I was taught manners," Arthur returned. "I plan on using them." _At least until we get to the ritual_, he amended silently.

The soldier leaned around Arthur to untie the rope. "See that you do."

"Is the boy alive yet?" Arthur thought he'd done a good job of keeping his voice steady.

"Far as I know." The soldier was indifferent; the rope loosened.

But it didn't remain that way long. Arthur was allowed to scramble to his feet, before the straw-haired man knotted the bonds again, this time in front of Arthur's body.

He blinked as he was pushed from the hut, squinted up. Mid-morning. The actions and attitudes of those visible in camp – busy or unoccupied, nonchalantly efficient - the business of life continued as usual. He could perceive nothing out of place, nothing new, nothing interesting. Had the scouts joined Leon? Were they watching?

"So where are they doing this ritual?" Arthur said.

The soldier ignored the question. Arthur was given the chance to relieve himself, then he was given a heel of bread and wedge of slightly sour cheese, and taken to the north end of camp, where a contingent of two dozen warriors milled – waiting expectantly but in no discernible formation.

Arthur stood, innocuous but alert, fumbling with the rope in a small way to draw no attention, but not having any success with the rope. He could see no weaknesses to successfully exploit, either in an inattentive soldier or a carelessly positioned weapon, or a clear line of escape. So he did as the others did, and waited.

It was not long before Vortigern and a handful of others arrived, on horseback. The general smoothed his moustaches, assessing his contingent quickly but thoroughly – even Arthur's presence was confirmed with a keen glance. Then he turned his mount and one of the foot soldiers – a captain or commander, probably – called an indistinct order which was nonetheless obeyed by the men, demonstrating a loose marching formation. Arthur was prodded into the middle and absorbed, the soldiers around him close enough to guard and deter any attempt he might make to disobey, but not close enough for him to snatch a weapon from and pose any significant threat.

A dusty track had been worn to the base of the hill and up, angling toward the east of the summit, and they followed it, coming out of the trees of the flat-land which sheltered the main camp.

They marched past a row of catapults on wheeled platforms, waiting to be drawn by teams of horses to the hilltop. Vortigern's men had not been idle, waiting on the solution to the de-constructing earth-tremors. Arthur couldn't quite stifle a shudder – with the catapults in place, the site could be defended without need for the completed tower. Whether Uther attacked the crumbled remnants of a foundation or a finished, furnished tower would not matter if these catapults tore holes in their lines and prevented a single enemy knight or soldier from reaching the base of the hill, much less its top. He wondered if Leon knew of the catapults.

By the time they reached the level brow of the hill Arthur's legs ached from the constant upward slant of the track, and his upper body was sore from compensating for the lack of free swing in his arms for the climb. His mouth was sticky-dry, his lungs heaving, and his nose filled with the dust that clung to his skin and clothes. Black specks floated in front of his eyes, but he scanned the bare hilltop, the handful of men already present – no cloak-covered druids.

"You can rest," the straw-haired soldier said from Arthur's right. "But don't get too comfortable – it's nearly noon."

Arthur stumbled a few paces to the side to collapse onto a low stone wall – part of the outer wall, he guessed, as it extended in both directions, rising and falling with the terrain of the hilltop. He was not well-versed in such things, but he thought he could see the stages of construction in the wall – sections cracked and fallen and rebuilt, different shades of mortar. He could see, as Leon had said, how the ground had been leveled, cleared of vegetation for an area roughly circular, maybe seventy-five yards across at its widest point. The ground had indeed been prepared – some paving was intact, a few walls of different structures stood, but everywhere there were piles of debris, some of rock clearly large enough to be salvageable, others of bits so small it would be incorporated into the mortaring – though no one worked today, it seemed.

The soldiers of the contingent mostly rested in small groups in what shade they could find. Four different men in different places met his eyes as they wandered – he was under constant guard. No mad scramble over the edge for him, not unless he wanted to reach the bottom feathered with arrows.

He licked his lips and tasted dust. Leon said there was a well, didn't he? A spring. He squinted around the hilltop, and his attention was caught by the largest number of soldiers grouped together, still standing in the noon sun rather than seeking a few inches of opportune shade like their comrades. The well? Arthur pushed himself to his feet and began to make his way toward that group, stumbling over and around some loose rubble, damage sustained during the previous night's quake but not yet cleared away, he guessed.

The straw-haired soldier positioned himself in Arthur's way, stopping him. "Going somewhere?" said the gap-toothed grin.

"Water." Arthur motioned to where he expected the well to be, and froze.

The group of soldiers had shifted, revealing the presence of two who weren't soldiers. He'd missed them in his first searching glance because they were no longer wearing their cloaks. But now – he shoved the soldier roughly out of the way with both hands and made it another half-dozen hurried paces closer before the soldier stopped him again.

"You're here to watch," the soldier warned him. "Not interfere." Arthur took one step more, and the soldier's hand dropped to the knife in his belt. "Far enough, scout."

Over the man's shoulder, Arthur watched, as his stomach clenched and his throat constricted. The older druid and the boy were the center of a loose circle that included Vortigern, Cenred, and maybe eight others, watching. A knife glinted in the elder's hand – Arthur tensed to leap forward, his mouth opening to shout a warning, a challenge, as irrational as it might be – the tip of the blade made a cut. In the material of Merlin's clothing only, slitting the thin white shirt the boy wore, neck to navel. The druid boy stood motionless as the older man replaced the knife in his belt, then moved behind Merlin to peel the ruined shirt back over his shoulders, down his arms. Arthur noticed the glint of something at the base of the boy's neck – a charm of some sort, he supposed.

Half-naked, surrounded by muscular warriors armed to the teeth, Merlin looked skinny and bony and pale and _young_. Arthur gritted his teeth, glancing around. Somehow he had to find a way to stop this – where were those damn scouts whose actual job that was? His rational mind recognized the impossibility of only a few men being able to reach the top of the hill unseen, uncaught, able to fight off thirty of Vortigern's warriors. The rest of him found scant comfort in cursing the absent rescuers.

The straw-haired soldier had turned to watch also, and Arthur managed a few more steps over the uneven ground before he was pulled to a stop again. Twenty yards – still too far away.

Merlin hadn't seen him, he didn't think. The younger boy appeared to be completely lost in his own thoughts, unaware of his surroundings. The older druid, by contrast, seemed to Arthur to be enjoying the regard of the group of fighters. He gestured with authority, and one stepped forward with a bucket. The druid reached into it, pulled out a dripping handful of cloth – and began to bathe the boy.

It should have been painfully embarrassing to watch, much less participate in. But the older man went about the task with methodical precision, dipping and wiping with an impersonal touch. And Merlin himself betrayed no emotion whatsoever, no feelings, no reaction. Ceremonial cleansing complete, the druid handed off the cloth, took the bucket in his hands.

He spoke, and Arthur could see the visible flash of magic in his eyes, even at the distance. Then he turned and poured the water slowly out over Merlin's head, the rivulets making the boy's pale skin glisten in the high sun, dampening his trousers. He was barefoot – somehow that made the situation even worse.

Merlin's only response was a single violent shiver, in spite of the heat of the sun.

The elder took the wad of the torn white shirt and rubbed it dispassionately over Merlin's black hair, tousling out the water droplets. It should have been the sort of gesture that showed the tender touch of a sympathetic caretaker, but the druid might well have been administering the attention to a horse or a dog or a statue. He spoke to Vortigern, who gestured toward the center of the site, and the circle of men dissipated as each drifted in that direction, careful to keep their distance from the two druids.

"Here we go," the straw-haired soldier said, wrapping his hand around Arthur's upper arm to urge him along.

Now what? What was he to do? A bound captive surrounded, still, by armed enemies. They'd kill him in a heartbeat without breaking a sweat and never think twice about it. His best efforts wouldn't delay the sacrifice by so much as five seconds, merely add his death to the boy's. If Merlin himself would not run… Arthur followed helplessly, aware that the rest of the contingent was drawing closer also.

There was an uneven block of stone, clearly selected and situated for the purpose, the ground clean-swept in a six-foot radius all around, tied bundles of some kind of dried greenery placed at intervals just inside that circle. The block itself was about five feet in length and two to three in a varying width. One end was higher than the other, creating a roughly sloping surface, with the low end being still two feet off the ground.

The soldiers stopped outside the swept circle, but the two druids didn't hesitate. Merlin, slender and childlike, was led to the block by his elder.

Arthur's heart was in his throat – _do_ something! But _what_? He was vaguely aware that his breathing and pulse had quickened.

The druid spoke to the boy, asking some indistinct question. Merlin responded emotionlessly, his hand rising to touch the small shiny charm at his neck. There was a pause – Arthur struggled to find some understanding of the short exchange – then the druid nodded agreement, gesturing. Merlin seated himself on the block, swinging his legs to the high end just as someone would do getting into their own comfortable bed at the end of a long weary day, laying himself down carefully so his head hung off the low end of the block.

The elder bent to place the now-empty bucket beneath Merlin's head.

"No." Arthur spoke without meaning to. He found that the red-haired soldier had joined the other in holding his arms, and they were pushing against him – or he was pushing against them.

The druid put out his hands and spoke – flashes sparked from the ground around the block and thin tendrils of smoke began to rise from the bundles of greenery strategically placed. Vortigern's soldiers all took a comprehensive yet spontaneous step back. The druid spoke again, and Merlin's body jerked, the spell yanking his feet to the high corners of the slope of the rock, his arms out and down to the sides, binding his body in place more easily and swiftly by magical means than physical. Spread-eagle. The tattoos stood out on the white skin of the underside of his forearms, swirling and blurring in Arthur's vision as the smoke rose and eddied on the breeze, the scent sweet and terrible.

"No." Arthur said again. His voice was weak, useless. He was on his knees, now, bearing the weight of his two guards as he strained forward. The druid began rolling his sleeves… to keep them clean. His own tattoos, matching those of the boy's, came into view. "Merlin!" He surged forward, bellowing. "No! _Merlin_!"

Merlin turned his head, the first motion he'd initiated deliberately thus far, and his eyes connected with Arthur's. Arthur was wrestled down again, some leathery object forced between his teeth to silence his cries to grunts. Merlin's eyes were still on him, clear and unafraid.

Arthur shook his head violently, pleading. _No. Don't. Please. Don't do this. Please don't go through with it_.

The boy turned his head back, tipping his chin to the sky… exposing his neck… closing his eyes. The druid elder knelt. Arthur dimly heard him chanting the ritual. The blade glinted, and touched the skin of Merlin's throat.

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

It was possible to block out another's telepathic voice and refuse the conversation, but only just, and it wasn't easy. It took a great deal of concentration, like clinging to the slender top of a tree in a windstorm – there was no time or attention to spare on watching the sunset or worrying about the tiny nest of eggs beneath, or feeling the patter of soaking raindrops begin, or making plans to climb down.

In thirteen years as the odd child out in the druid camp, Merlin had gotten very good at his mind-isolation.

Merlin found that by consistently refusing the voice that persisted in attempting to address him, he managed to ignore everything else – like eating breakfast and walking up the long dusty track of Dinas Emrys and hearing audible voices and even removing his own boots.

He held the concentration as the ritual began with only the vaguest of awareness on his part, up to the point where Ruadan turned a bucketful of water over his head – no ordinary water, but sparkling with the magic that accomplished what the water represented - the cleansing of mind and heart. The chilly shock passed through his skin and cascaded through his magic.

_Merlin_. The voice sounded as if on the edge of patience, gentleness sharpened with urgency. _Young warlock, you ignore me to the peril of all_.

_Me? Who's me?_ He responded with irritation. His earlier attempts of _leave me alone_ had failed utterly, as had _shut up shut up_! _Who are you, anyway_?

The voice began repeating – again, how tiresome – the prophecy. _Be wary of Dinas Emrys hill…_

_So what?_ he interrupted. _You're Dinas Emrys? That's worse, you know, than if I've somehow convinced myself that I'm not talking to myself. I'm talking to a hill. Can't I die in peace and sanity, at least?_

_Merlin! Peace, boy, and listen. You were drawn here for a reason, but others have confused that reason._

_You're confusing me now_, he snapped back.

_Prophecy, like destiny, is often confusing. However, in this moment it seems quite clear. Are you paying attention?_

_Trying not to_, Merlin muttered rebelliously.

_Take magic's soul to all men's cost – you –_

"You must remove that," Ruadan's voice said.

Merlin blinked, and met the elder's eyes. No kindness, no sympathy, merely attention to detail, that the ritual would go according to plan. His senses, now freed from the concentration of preventing, then holding the internal conversation, passed messages of the men who surrounded them, the block behind him, the herb-bundles carefully assembled and positioned.

His fingers rose to touch the pendant at his neck, given by his father to his mother – his father, who had fallen, who had bled his life out in defense of another. The small silver dragon, warm from his skin, wet from the cleansing, wings and winding tail.

"I will wear it," he told Ruadan. "And – after – please take it back to my mother?"

Something in the elder's eyes cleared, as if he had forgotten that Merlin was a _person_. He gave a nod of assent, and – having won the small victory – Merlin let his legs drop him onto the block. He positioned himself slowly and deliberately, not wanting the warriors – the outsiders – to see him tremble.

He heard the wooden bucket knock lightly against the stone, shuffle into place in the dust. He swallowed against the nausea that surprised him at the thought of it filling with his blood.

He wondered if it would hurt, if it would be over quickly. If he would twitch and choke grotesquely, or simply fade away in austere stillness. His heart was thumping, his whole body trying to breathe, trying to slow and calm the breathing. The perspiration of dread broke out on his skin.

Ruadan spoke to light the herb-bundles that surrounded them, "_Baerne_." The sun was directly overhead, and so bright that Merlin's eyes began to water. That worried him – he did not want it to seem like he was crying.

_Merlin_. A growl of warning. _Lord's true key. Magic's soul – you are on the edge of making a grave error._

Ruadan's next spell startled Merlin as his arms and legs jerked out to the side, holding his body in place against any involuntary movements.

_A grave error_, he scoffed. _Really? That's the best you can do at gallows humor? I won't have a grave – a cairn – a pyre. I will be Vortigern's tower. I will be Dinas Emrys._

_Emrys – yes._

He heard another voice. "Merlin! No – _Merlin_!" He heard anguish in the tone that startled him. No one present should feel such about his death. He turned his head, searching for the origin of the cry, and saw him. The older boy – Arthur.

_Is that him_? the voice rumbled in his mind. Arthur was held down, held back by three – no, four of Vortigern's men. One of them put his hand over the lower half of Arthur's face, forcing some kind of gag to quiet the scout. _The becoming prince. Not yet, but almost certainly soon._

He blinked, holding Arthur's gaze, surprised that the older boy should feel so strongly a responsibility to thwart the plans of his father's enemy. _Set all aright. Hair of sun_ – shining there golden like the anticipated coronet – _gaze of sky_ – Merlin turned his head to see the heat-seared blue overhead.

It was fine. He was ready. He closed his eyes.

_Merlin, son of Balinor – stop this now! Take magic's soul to all men's cost – do not give yourself like this!_

Ruadan began to chant the words of the ritual. "_Crungon walo wide, cwoman woldagas_…"

_If blood be spilled then all is lost all is lost – all will be lost!_

_All right_! he screamed back. The blade touched his skin.

"Ruadan," Merlin spoke aloud. "Stay your hand. One minute." The knife remained in place, the pressure only slight and not enough to break his skin; Ruadan waited. If the elder spoke, the ritual would be interrupted and unable to continue – they would have to begin anew.

_Fine_, he snarled toward the voice. _Now what would you have me do_?

"What is going on?" Merlin recognized the general's voice, low and respectful but impatient.

"Ruadan," Merlin repeated the words that came into his mind. "Chosen elder of your clan, appointed shepherd of your people, you have led them far afield. You have stepped into the darkness in your eagerness to reach the light." The edge of metal left his throat, but the invisible bonds held him immobile and he didn't open his eyes. "You have forgotten your heritage."

"What is he saying?" Vortigern rasped.

Ruadan still didn't answer, probably hoping to return to the ritual with only a minor delay. Merlin opened his eyes, feeling droplets trickle down his temples, the sun and the sky successively blurry and clear, high above. There was an eagle, he saw, gliding motionless, sliding effortlessly through the rising warm air.

"At Dinas Emrys fiery core," he whispered into the unnatural stillness at the center of the hilltop, "The ancient magic sleeps no more."

Silence.

Then Vortigern demanded, "What does that mean?"

Ruadan's face moved into Merlin's field of vision, shaken and pale. "Why did you say that?"

He swallowed. "I was told to," he said. _Now I _sound_ mad as well as _feel_ mad_. His head pounded from the unusual angle of his body.

"By whom?"

Merlin listened a moment to the voice in his head. "The giant deep," he said.

Ruadan pointed the razor-sharp ceremonial knife accusingly at Merlin. "You expect us to believe that a _dragon_ –"

Dragon. The word was whispered through the circling crowd of soldiers, in every tone of fear and disbelief and scorn. Vortigern's rose above them all, "_Dragon_? That fairy tale? Ruadan, you claimed he was _willing_ and now you stop because he's blubbering about some infant's bedtime story?"

Quiet rage bubbled up from the depths of the earth. Merlin felt the block quiver violently beneath him, felt the consternation of the other men as they braced themselves against the tremors. Words burst from his lungs, "_Dragorn! Non didlkai! Kari miss_!"

The pressure on his arms and legs evaporated, as the rage dissolved like mist under the sunlight, leaving a rise of dust in the air and pale shock on the faces of the warriors. Vortigern was swearing roundly. Merlin sat up, feeling weak and shaky. He didn't trust his legs, and so he didn't try them.

"What was that?" Ruadan said. "That was no spell." Merlin didn't answer; he suspected that the only one who would know was the consciousness that had chosen him as its mouthpiece, for some reason. And he didn't care to ask. "Are we to believe that the last and oldest dragon is not dead, but has indeed been slumbering in some underground chamber for forty years? You claim to be of dragonlord blood?"

Merlin drew back, startled. "No – I don't know." His voice was hoarse, as though he'd breathed all the dust and smoke into his lungs. _Dragon. Dragon? Lord? What the–_

Vortigern strode into the circle, further fragmenting the ritual – though probably the general didn't realize that, Merlin thought. He planted himself at Ruadan's side, massive bare arms crossed over his chest, the scowl that blackened his face including both druids. "What do you mean, _dragon_?" he demanded. "Who is this boy?"

"Son of a peasant woman, and no father." Ruadan shook his head.

"Son of Balinor," Merlin corrected softly.

_Son of Aurelian_, the voice added, in much the same tone.

Merlin felt shivery, and wondered if maybe his mind had disconnected completely, even now his blood draining… he put a hand to his throat, felt the tiny silver dragon. "Son of Aurelian," he repeated dazedly.

Ruadan's gaze sharpened. "How do you know _that_ name?" he said. Then his gaze dropped to the pendant that Merlin fingered, and the blood drained from his face in sudden realization. He said stiffly, "Lord's true key in plainest sight – _oh_ _ye gods_."

"Somebody better start explaining something," Vortigern threatened.

"If a dragon is causing the earthquakes, no sacrifice will end them," Merlin said. "And I was told not to give myself."

"Told by a dragon somewhere down there?" A younger man, about thirtyish, stepped to Vortigern's side. He had the mean look of a scavenger, rather than the assured strength of a predator. "Father, he's only saying this to save his own skinny neck. Kill him anyway," the man concluded contemptuously.

"I cannot take his blood unwilling," Ruadan said. "The ritual –"

The younger man swept him aside. "I can," he sneered, beginning to draw the sword at his hip.

"Ritual or not," Merlin said, not moving. "If I am killed, your tower will never stand."

The general's gaze, cold and calculating, said, _What are you playing at, boy?_ The moustaches stirred. "Have you an alternative suggestion?"

"Set me free." Merlin shook his head to clear it of the other's influence. _Really? A dragon? My father and his father – dragonlords?_ "I mean, allow me to set the dragon free. It is he who causes the earth-tremors. We will go – and you may build."

**A/N: Oh, I know. Shamelessly drawing out the suspense and drama… :P**

**PS. The ritual spell is taken from ep.5.1, evidently a prayer of sorts, spoken by Ruadan, in fact.**


	6. Join the Key

**A/N: Forgot to mention last chapter, Merlin's dragon-tongue phrase to calm the mid-ritual earthquake comes from ep.2.13 "The Last Dragonlord".**

…..*…..

**Chapter 6: Join the Key**

_With hair of sun and gaze of sky_

_The bell will ring to let him by_

_So join the key and sound the bell_

_Descend into the flaming hell._

…..*…..

_ "Allow me to set the dragon free. It is he who causes the earth-tremors. We will go – and you may build."_

The three men looked down on Merlin, huddled half-naked and barefoot on the block. He was aware of how ridiculous he must look.

"Rubbish," the young dark-haired man pronounced sarcastically. "He's a coward. Kill him now and round up the next one or twelve or whatever, and they'll be willing enough."

"Cenred," Vortigern rasped, "you have no imagination." He turned to the druid elder. "What say you, Ruadan? What truth might there be to the legend?"

"It's not impossible," Ruadan said, after a moment. "Though highly _improbable_. But – " He hesitated again, then stepped closer to the general and lowered his voice. "If he's _right_, no sacrifice or ritual will calm a captive dragon if his lord is dead."

"Father!" Cenred exclaimed. "A dragonlord? Him?"

"We were early," Merlin said. "Give me that extra day to find and release the dragon and prove that what I say is true."

"Or else?" Vortigern said slowly, clearly weighing the likelihood of the conflicting claims. "One day, boy. Sunset tomorrow, you prove your story, or – willing or not – you'll return to the block." Merlin nodded. "Leave immediately," the general continued. "And waste no time. Two men I will send to see that you return, one way or another." His teeth gleamed. "Your elder I will hold as surety for your good behavior, druid boy. Any magic tricks, and it'll be his blood splashed on these stones." At Ruadan's horrified look, he said to the elder, "Is your magic strong enough to best an army? Then I wouldn't resist, if I were you."

As Vortigern stepped to the side, Merlin's eyes fell upon the others present, that he'd completely forgotten about. The soldier-spectators, and Arthur. The older boy knelt unmoving, a short distance away; the red-haired soldier seated on the corner of a rock protruding from a nearby pile of rubble propped the point of his sword dispassionately in the hollow below Arthur's right collarbone.

"I will take the scout also," Merlin said without thinking. Vortigern swung back, surprised. "The Pendragon's scout. Send as many soldiers with us as you wish, but I want _him_ as well."

Vortigern and Ruadan both turned to look at Arthur, who realized, judging from his expression, that he was the focus of the conversation he couldn't hear. "Why?" Vortigern said, only.

"He means to cross us, Father," Cenred declared. "I don't trust him – why should he want the Pendragon's scout to go free?"

"He doesn't go free," Vortigern said slowly. "He simply goes along. You know something we don't, boy? You're hedging your bets?"

"You can't trust him, Merlin," Ruadan said. "Whatever he may have told you. Camelot is no friend to magic."

Merlin didn't look at the elder, afraid Ruadan would see what he was thinking on his face – _With hair of sun and gaze of sky, the bell will ring to let him by_… He repeated stubbornly, "Let me release the dragon and go, and you can build your tower. Let the scout go with me, let him see the dragon and take word back to Lord Pendragon, and maybe – maybe they'll leave us all alone."

One of Vortigern's bushy gray eyebrows quirked. "So be it," he said. He whirled and stalked away, bellowing orders that Merlin be given a shirt, that a day's supplies be gathered. Cenred stomped after him, and after a moment of indecision, Ruadan took the bucket and began to gather the clumps of smoldering herbs.

Arthur was released, and came slowly to Merlin, still crouched on the block. His manner was composed, but his eyes were stormy, and he was somehow taller than Merlin had expected, blocking the sun when he stopped and putting Merlin in his shadow.

"What." The older boy spoke deliberately, between his teeth. "The hell. Was that."

"It's complicated." Merlin noticed the raw welts around Arthur's wrists, and reached automatically to try to heal them, then remembered, no magic without permission. The promise hadn't been a problem, when he thought he would be dead within a day's time. He wrapped his arms around himself.

"Start at the beginning," Arthur suggested without humor, "go on through the middle, and when you get to the end, you can stop." Merlin squinted up at him, beginning to shiver. "I'm especially interested in the part where you changed your mind? Used magic to shake the hill again?"

"Oh, that wasn't mine –" Merlin protested, but Arthur overrode him.

"Forced the general to agree to your terms? How about that part? And by the way, what were they?"

Merlin clenched his teeth to keep them from clattering together. He was shaking so hard he completely missed the "Hey, boy, catch!" A rumpled shirt thrown against him flopped over one of his knees. He looked down at it, confused.

Arthur made a sound of exasperation and snatched the garment, orienting it to slip over Merlin's head. "Honestly, _Mer_lin," he said, "you are the _strangest_…" He left Merlin to shove his arms awkwardly into the shirt, which smelled of dust and someone else's sweat and was too large for him. Returning with Merlin's own cloak and boots, Arthur slung the garment around his shoulders before seating himself at the high end of the block, facing Merlin and resting one boot on the surface between them.

"Are you m-mad at m-me?" Merlin said, putting his feet into the boots and pulling the cloak around him, though he wasn't shivering because he was cold. He thought he might fly apart in tiny pieces, laugh, cry, throw up – _shock_, he thought. From conversing with a dragon and interrupting an elder and negotiating with a general… he clutched his arms to his chest more tightly.

"Hells no I'm not –" Arthur sighed. He shook his head, then raised it to look around them. "So what is it now? They've got to find twelve others, or is there some new plan?"

Twelve others. Merlin's heart twisted at the casual way this son of Uther seemed to accept the atrocity of magic implied. "N-new plan," he said. "You and m-me and two of the s-soldiers are going to f-find a way inside the hill."

Arthur looked down on him, lips twisted in sardonic disbelief. "Inside the hill?" he said. "For what?"

"I said it was complicated," Merlin snapped. He put the hood over his head, drew up his knees, and rested his forehead on them. Already the day had been too much for him, and it was only noon.

Arthur let him sit a moment in silence, while Vortigern's men moved all around. It sounded to him like most of them were beginning the work of the day, which had been set aside in preparation for the ritual.

"The dragon," Merlin finally mumbled. "Legend has it that the last of the dragons was interred here, only – onlyhemightnotbedead." He lifted his head to send a quick glance at Arthur to gauge his reaction.

"The dragon," the older boy repeated, hiding his feelings behind a thoughtful face. "A spell for hibernation, right? Like bears in winter." Merlin's jaw dropped, and Arthur snorted. "Come on, Merlin, we're not entirely ignorant in Camelot. My father's physician –"

"If you children are through with storytime…" They both looked up to see the red-haired soldier adjusting the string of a supply-bag over his shoulder and across his chest – "Let's go. Talk of dragons makes Benley nervous, an' I hate caves." A tall, skinny soldier with hair like a haystack grinned widely, fondling a sling that hung at his belt, then spit through a gap in his front teeth.

Merlin and Arthur stood at the same time. Merlin looked around them, not quite convinced it was going to be that easy for them to just walk away, double guard or no. A stone's throw distant, where the track reached the summit and Vortigern's gates would one day be hung, the general, his son, and Ruadan watched them.

"Well?" the tow-headed Benley prompted. "Let's go."

"That's it?" Merlin said. "We just walk away?"

The soldier spat between his teeth again. "Unless you'd rather stay?" He gestured at the block, and the red-haired soldier snickered at Merlin's involuntary shudder. "You got a day and a half, druid, it's your own time you're wasting. Which way?"

Which way. Good question. All three were looking at _him_; he took half a step back, panic flaring, then closed his eyes to shut out the looks on their faces – expectation, derision, contempt. _He_ couldn't do this. _Hey_, he tried. _Hey, dragon_! He felt ridiculous, maybe a little insane.

_He has a name_. The voice sounded sternly amused.

_Oh, right. Sorry. I'm Merlin, what's your name? _

_As pleasant as your acknowledgement of my existence is, I prefer face-to-face introductions_.

Face to face with a dragon – his heart quailed. _How – how do I get to you?_

_You must enter by the door_, the voice said matter-of-factly.

_It's a hill_, he argued. _Hills don't have –_

_How do you suppose I reached my chosen resting place, young warlock?_

_Then how come you need my help to release you?_ he questioned.

_The door is in the grove_. The telepathic connection severed, and Merlin might have swayed a little as he opened his eyes to the scrutiny of his three unlikely companions.

"The door is in the grove," he told them.

…..*….. …..*….. …...*….. …..*….. …..*…..

It was hard going, descending the northern face of the mount of Dinas Emrys. It wasn't so steep as to be impossible or even dangerous, exactly, but there was no track like that which led to the summit from Vortigern's camp to the south. From the north, there could be no horses ridden up or down – they went on foot.

For the most part shaded, thick with trees and prickly underbrush, the air was close and heavy with the humid green smell of spring. Sweat dampened Arthur's hair and clothing. His boot dislodged a stone and he slid several feet down the hillside. He was in the lead, however that had happened, with Merlin not far behind and above him, and their two armed guards some distance behind them, and separated to each flank.

He was glad for the physical exertion, for the discomfort of the descent. It kept his mind off other things, for the most part. The wrath of his father, yet to be faced. The goal of his venture, changed and not yet re-evaluated. And Merlin.

Behind him, the druid boy yelped. Arthur reacted instinctively, grabbing the trunk of the tree nearest him and turning toward the startled sound, as a wash of dirt and loose detritus – stones, a fallen branch – bounded down the steep hill. Arthur reached out and snatched a handful of brown cloak as the boy came crashing through the underbrush, picking up speed as he tumbled down the slope. His weight and impetus almost yanked Arthur's hand from the anchoring tree, and he crouched to keep the grip of both hands firm.

Merlin struggled a moment for balance, and against the tightening of shirt and cloak-tie on his neck. They were both panting when Arthur felt confident enough in the security of their position to let go. Merlin's boot found the base of another sapling rooted in the hillside, and shoved himself a few inches higher.

"Thanks," he said, coughing and lying back on the slope.

Arthur looked at him with reluctance. He'd much rather focus on action than try to reason out the snarl of emotion he felt whenever he considered the puzzle that was Merlin. He'd been trying to ignore the boy and the questions he raised since they'd climbed over the barely-begun outer wall of Vortigern's tower and started their descent, but now he couldn't help noticing that the only color in the boy's skin were the dark circles around and under his eyes, and the way the slight body labored for breath.

He twisted around to find the two guards, descending more carefully. "We're going to take a couple minutes' rest!" he hollered up the hill to them. The red-haired soldier waved once in acknowledgement; the straw-haired Benley dropped to a sitting position where he was. Arthur did the same beside Merlin. "We're about halfway down," he remarked.

Merlin hummed, in agreement or in relief or in disappointment, Arthur couldn't tell. He studied the younger boy who rested with his eyes shut, noticed the pulse beating in the hollow of his throat. He had the feeling that Merlin had far more information about the situation they found themselves in, and it bothered him. Young he might be, but a warlord's son trained. He was about at the end of his patience with "It's complicated".

The ritual had been delayed, that much of his quest was successful. The logic of a scout loyal to Camelot and Uther Pendragon would have Arthur seeking to escape and reconnect with his own men. It could be as little as two days, he guessed, until his father's first troops arrived at Dinas Emrys to face Vortigern. But there was more to it than building a tower. His father would be facing catapults. And the unanswered question of a dragon.

"How did you know about a dragon?" he said conversationally, and Merlin squinted one eye open at him. Having spoken, some of Arthur's frustration rushed to his mouth. "And why, for the love of all that's holy, did you leave it so late to stop the ritual?" _Hells, Merlin, my heart was in my throat, you scared me half to death_ – he'd never say it, never admit it. Caring was a weakness. His father said so.

"I heard his voice," Merlin said. "In my mind."

"So you were hearing voices," Arthur said, heavily sarcastic.

Merlin shuffled on the ground, reached underneath him to remove a stone, and gave it a blind toss down the slope. "I know it sounds mad," he said defensively. "I was trying not to – he didn't give me much of a choice. He was angry and – really loud."

Arthur stared down at the boy. "You were ignoring a dragon?" he said incredulously.

Merlin opened both eyes, startled bright blue, and his lips twitched in a grin. "I suppose I was," he said in a wondering tone.

Arthur couldn't help chuckling, and shook his head. "I can't figure you out, you know that?" he said.

Merlin huffed glumly. "Me, neither. I was hoping to grow out of that, though."

"Good luck with that," Arthur told him, teasing and yet serious, too. Merlin smiled acknowledgement. "Tell me something, though, before we carry on sliding down this hill." A very faint, shuttered look came over Merlin's face, a stillness like the lightest of shadows, and Arthur wondered at it. "I get why the dragon would choose you, if you've got all this power, like you said – but why me? Why am I along?" As Merlin opened his mouth to respond, Arthur threatened, "And don't you dare tell me it's complicated, or I'll push you down the hill."

"They wanted you to – watch the ritual?" Merlin said slowly. "Go back and tell Uther that the tower would be built, and strong?" His gaze stayed on the high green leaves above, but Arthur nodded anyway. "You think they would have put you back in that cabin for two more days? Or maybe just killed you?" Merlin rolled to his side, propping his head on his fist, elbow on the ground. "They don't know who you are, do they?"

Arthur's instincts warned him to wariness. Only to Merlin had he told his name, and evidently the boy had intended to keep that secret to his death. But things had changed. Knowledge of Arthur's identity could be used against him – he'd go from a random low-ranking scout to the most important object of blackmail against his father. The price for his ransom, if Vortigern was willing to accept a monetary offer, rather than making other demands, would be high.

"No," he said only.

A shout came from up the hill. "Going to rest all day, boys?"

Arthur used the trunk of the tree to pull himself upright, and gave the younger boy a hand also. His legs had ached from the upward climb that morning; they were beginning to ache now from descending the downward slope this afternoon. And his knees did not appreciate the jarring of uncertain footing.

"How came you to Dinas Emrys?" Merlin said curiously, following him more closely than he had been, earlier.

"By horse," Arthur said laconically.

Merlin clicked his tongue. "No, I mean – did your father send you by yourself, or were you captured from a troop, or –"

Arthur took a moment deciding to answer. Deciding what the druid boy might do with the knowledge that his people didn't actually know where Arthur was. "I came on my own," he said finally.

"Why?"

Because he envied his friend, a knight and a courier. Because he resented being treated like a child. Because he wanted to show his half-sister that her nightmare was unfounded and not the result of magic. Because he wanted to prove to his father that he could be valuable to him as more than just an heir, as a trusted warrior.

"Doesn't matter anymore," Arthur said shortly. All he'd shown was that he'd been wrong. He wasn't ready for such an assignment, he wasn't an asset but a liability to his father and his army, and perhaps his choice had begun to bring his sister's nightmare to pass – _someone held a sword to your throat_… And hadn't there been something about a dark tunnel and an enormous dragon, too?

He was in no hurry to return to the army or the fort of Camelot. Not with less than nothing to show for his venture.

At the foot of the hill, they stopped again. It was only late afternoon, but on the north side of the hill, they wouldn't see the sun again until the morrow. All four ate and drank and rested; they found a small stream, just a few inches of clear water trickling down the rocky hillside.

Arthur took a turn flinging cupped handfuls over his hot, dusty hair, letting it drip down his face, down into his collar. The wet material of the shirt felt fine against his skin – by the time the sun had truly set, it would be dry enough again to protect him against the chill of the air. He lifted his head and looked around; the likelihood of the presence of any scouts or couriers of Camelot here to the north of the hill was very slim, but he did wonder where they were – and what they knew.

"I can try to do something about that, if you like?" Merlin said from behind him.

Arthur spun in his crouch; he hadn't heard the boy approach. The two guards still talked and laughed some distance away. "About what?" Arthur said suspiciously.

Merlin moved closer, throwing out his arms for balance as he stepped over the stream. "Your wrists," he said, rubbing his own to demonstrate his meaning. "Where they tied you."

Arthur pushed his sleeves back, studying the rope-burns with a critical eye. There were probably rope-fibers and splinters from the post present in the raw marks, but he shrugged. "I'll be fine."

Merlin crouched down opposite him, shapeless in the shroud of his cloak. But the hood was thrown back and his face was clearly visible – the earnest expression, the clarity of his gaze so different from the tough facades of the men and boys Arthur was used to associating with.

"I'm not that good at healing magic," the younger boy admitted. "In the camp, we don't see much besides scrapes and bruises, and those are left to heal on their own, mostly. Underage sorcerers aren't trusted with anything more, like broken bones, unless they're apprenticed to a healer, so no one else really gets a chance to practice. I can try…" His lips quirked and his eyes gleamed with a private amusement shared with Arthur alone. "I promise I won't make it worse."

Looking into the face of the young druid, innocent and eager to help, Arthur was ashamed of his reaction to the suggestion of magic. "My father's physician," he said, his eyes on his hands, "is a known sorcerer. His skill is – unequaled, but his power is small. I've seen him use magic only twice in the infirmary…" Once for a child who'd accidentally ingested a poisonous plant, and once for a man whose throat had been nearly crushed in a fight. It had saved lives both times, but the old man had clearly struggled to perform the magic – and Arthur had been severely reprimanded by his father when it was discovered that he had disobeyed the order to leave the room during the spell-casting. "My father –"

"Magic isn't darkness and blood, secret rituals and nasty surprises of the cost at the end," the boy said, and Arthur saw that he believed every word. "The clans, they – fear what magic might do in the hands of someone untaught or unprincipled, so they guard and guide so strictly it makes people afraid of what they don't understand." He shuffled forward and reached out, but didn't quite touch Arthur's hand. "I'm sorry about the candle, the other night. To me, magic is like life and breath, like air, like flying. Bright and pure and…" he stopped, blushing a little. "Anyway, I can try. With your permission."

He had a strange fascination with the boy who seemed so different from the concept of the druids that Arthur had been taught. His curiosity overcame his training; he shrugged negligently, and extended his hands.

Merlin didn't touch him. Instead, his open hands hovered above Arthur's, the middle finger extended just slightly from the others, an inch from the raw welts. He spoke softly, words that Arthur didn't understand, yet which tingled through him with the knowledge of a magic spell being worked upon his flesh, his body, with his consent – the son of Uther Pendragon. Merlin's eyes gleamed golden in the dusky light, as his hands moved to each side, circling Arthur's, as though his two fingers traced the mark in the air above Arthur's wrists. Slowly, and around - the whisper, the gleam – the hopeful blue.

Arthur dropped his gaze from the young sorcerer's eyes to his arms, and though the rope-burns were still visible, the redness and swelling and open abrasion had faded into the weeks-old trace of a nearly-healed wound.

Merlin gave him a dissatisfied grimace. "You see? I'm not much good. That spell should heal you so completely you couldn't tell it ever happened."

Arthur's eyebrows lifted. That someone could whisper words and affect even the smallest change was frightening and marvelous to him. "Uh-huh," he said, hiding as always behind a sarcastic nonchalance.

"I can try again –" Merlin reached out.

Arthur drew back. "No, it's – it's enough," he said. "It's fine. Thank you."

Merlin nodded, looking childishly pleased. The thought struck Arthur that the boy's reaction was in direction opposition to the egotistical gratification of Ruadan conducting the ritual and the general and all his men following his instructions. In Merlin's case, it was – unselfish. Giving without expectation of any kind of payment; even the inadequate _thank-you_ was received as kind of an unanticipated reward.

"We should go," Arthur said softly, finally looking up.

"We can reach the grove by nightfall, I think." His eyes on Arthur's, Merlin nevertheless raised his hand to point the direction unerringly with one long finger.

After this stop, Merlin took the lead. Arthur was completely unfamiliar with the terrain; the two guards knew where to find the grove – how far and in what direction – but as long as neither of their charges were trying anything underhanded, they were content to bring up the rear.

Merlin, Arthur thought, could have given them the slip at any point, even without magic. That cloak of his blended into the falling dusk, and the impulsive way his lithe, slight figure glided over the forested terrain threatened to leave the others behind. The shadows blended with him, and if he had not constantly turned to check on them with an encouraging smile, to wait a moment for them, he might have been gone before they so much as noticed.

"Stop!" the red-haired soldier called out abruptly, standing still. Arthur obeyed, turning to give the guard his attention. The straw-haired Benley caught up to his companion, as Merlin ghosted back to Arthur's side. "We stay here for the night," the guard announced.

Merlin protested mildly, "The grove isn't much further…" But Arthur noticed that the red-haired soldier – both of them, in fact, were not watching their two younger charges. Their eyes roved uneasily over the dark forested area behind them, and the effect was so unsettling that Arthur turned to search the graying gloom himself – but he saw nothing.

"We stop here for the night," Benley agreed.

The two soldiers, though their watch had been somewhat cursory during the daytime, increased their vigilance in preparation for the evening. Hands on their weapons and eyes sharp – on their surroundings as often as on the two captive boys – they supervised the collecting of stones to line the firepit, and kindling to fill it. Arthur was told to drag some fallen branches and half-rotted sections of tree trunk – intended to function as chairs and headboards, both - to form a tight perimeter.

The completion of the camp did not serve to restore confidence to the guards. It took Benley several attempts to light the kindling, accompanied by muttered cursing. "Make him do it," the red-head suggested, gesturing to Merlin. Benley growled, and Merlin threw Arthur a secret smile.

After a light repast, they rolled themselves in their blankets for the night, with suspicious glares and threats and much ostentatious placing of weapons to hand by the guards. Merlin sprawled comfortably on his back, hands behind his head, the same faint private smile still on his face.

Arthur turned himself away from all three. It was hard to remind himself that even though the immediate goal of entering the hill and finding the dragon might be in common for the present, Merlin's loyalty was to the clan allied with Vortigern – the last enemy of Arthur's father.

The moment his eyes shut out the physical world, his treacherous memory presented him with the scene he had tried to keep blocked – the noon ritual. Even at twenty paces, some of what was spoken at the center of the ritual, at the block, had come to his ears, especially after the lethal knife had been retracted, and the soldiers had released their hold on him. He gathered that Merlin was speaking, saying something that halted and confused the druid elder and the general, both.

Then Vortigern had exclaimed, loudly and mockingly, _Dragon? That fairy tale? Ruadan, you claimed he was willing and now you stop because he's blubbering about some infant's bedtime story?_

For a moment there was silence. Then the earth began to tremble, to roll, to shake – Arthur had thought confusedly, _midnight, not noon_ – as the soldiers crouched for a panicky cover around him. The skinny, half-naked boy bound to the sacrifice stone had bellowed out a string of words that sounded somehow bigger and stronger than himself. And the tremor had subsided. Perhaps Merlin had caused it; perhaps his spell had calmed it, Arthur didn't know.

More arguing. Cenred had stepped forward – _Father! A dragonlord? Him?_ Dragonlord. Arthur remembered what his father had said, _Sorcery is bad enough, without the evil distortion that the dragonlords practiced_. If the suggestion of butchering a dozen young boys like Merlin was not so bad as whatever the dragonlords had done… Arthur shuddered and clutched his blanket closer around his shoulders. He didn't know whether to hope that one had survived to control this dragon, or that the race had been, as his father had put it, exterminated.

It was pretty clear, he thought, that Merlin believed there was indeed a living dragon trapped in some underground cavern – and Vortigern and Ruadan, the druid elder, gave enough credence to the claim for this side venture of theirs. He might as well accept it as truth as well, at least until it was proven otherwise. And leaving aside Vortigern's threats against Ruadan, Merlin's instructions from the beast, and his own less-than-free status, Arthur figured it was not practical to expect a dragon to remain in such a prison, once woken, even for the purpose of preventing the construction of Vortigern's tower. Arthur hoped that he might be able to persuade the dragon – in repayment for his own part in the beast's freedom – to relocate far from Camelot. Then he might return to his father's men in time to accomplish the defeat of Vortigern, catapults and high ground and all.

And somewhere in there, he wished to find a way to reach some understanding with his father about the druids… about Merlin. They should not have to seek protection from Vortigern; Camelot should be a haven of peace for all, as his father envisioned, but with none excluded. Perhaps, if the clans were not hunted and routed and persecuted, the druids might relax their grip on the secrecy…

Arthur did not recall falling asleep.

He woke to the same sort of aggravated ache, the same dew-dampness that made him believe, for a disoriented moment, that he'd only just slipped out of the fort, that he need to rise and ready his horse and himself for the ride to Dinas Emrys.

But his eyes, blinking to a grudging acceptance of gray day, fell upon a certain space where the grass had been flattened by someone else's sleeping body, to his left, that was empty.

Arthur remembered, and lifted his head. The campfire was a hollow of untended ash and winking hidden coals. The two soldiers sent to guard them gripped their weapons and slumbered on.

He sat up. He heard nothing but the birdsong of an early spring morning, soft twitter and flit and rustle of tiny creatures. A moment of privacy, nothing more, he thought, waiting. As he waited and the moment lengthened, he turned his head – no sign of the druid boy. Hide nor hair. Quietly, he pushed himself up, leaving his borrowed blanket in a heap.

Stealthily he crept from the camp, southeast if his sense of direction was correct, but stayed within range of vision, watching to the outside of the perimeter as he circled. Nothing. No trace of the boy's passage that he could detect.

Arthur returned to the campsite, fists clenched in indecision. Perhaps Merlin had gone on to the grove himself; he'd been keen enough on reaching it the night before. Perhaps he had run. He'd waited until his elder could not make a report back to the clan, waited until the most opportune time to disappear from the midst of Vortigern's assembly.

What should Arthur do? Calling for him would awaken and alert the soldiers. If Merlin could not be found, they'd return Arthur to their general's judgment – or he'd have to fight two armed men to win his freedom, and hope to rejoin troops loyal to Camelot before he ran into any more of Vortigern's men. He could slip a weapon from one of them and kill both now with a minimum of effort and risk – his stomach lurched and his palms dampened at the thought. Or – he could leave, too. Just walk – creep, hurry, run – away, back to safety. Back home.

He waited, the uncertainty gnawing at his heart. Soon the soldiers would wake anyway. Waited, and the moments passed, and Merlin did not return.

Damn that boy.


	7. The Bell Will Ring

**Chapter 7: The Bell Will Ring**

_With hair of sun and gaze of sky_

_The bell will ring to let him by_

_So join the key and sound the bell_

_Descend into the flaming hell._

…..*…..

Merlin's sleep was deep and profound, but not exactly restful. He could sense the proximity of the grove, it called it sang it promised. It was like the first glimpse of home after a long day, when body and spirit alike were tired and sore and dusty, the rich scent of stew bubbling over his own fireside, the welcoming smile of his mother, the slight rippling of breeze over tent material, audible through the trees.

He woke early, and impatient. It was his right, he supposed, to wake the others and demand the continuation of their journey, but he was also the youngest – and as unfamiliar with dealing with strangers as he was with the position of command.

There were certain times in the day's rotation that were special, when the magic in the world ran a little higher for a few moments. Midnight, of course, was the most powerful time, that breath of _between_ one day and the next, both and neither. Noon, then, the sun at its zenith, neither rising nor setting but again _between_, the daylight hours divided exactly in half. Sunset, and… sunrise.

Merlin didn't want to visit the grove by himself, even for that glorious moment when the sun took its first look at a fresh day – there would be difficulties if his absence was noticed. Luckily for him, there was another option, and a very close second choice, for him.

His cloak fastened at his throat, but out of the way behind his shoulders, Merlin chose a tree only a few paces away, the tallest and straightest, and began to climb.

He was thirty feet off the ground when the swaying warned him this was his limit. He put his back to the trunk, straddling one branch while his right foot remained firmly on another beneath. There was a few moments left before daybreak, and he looked down at the camp, mostly obscured below the myriad branches and leaves between him and the ground. All was yet still.

Merlin lifted his face to the east, where the sun would rise over the low shoulders of the range of hills ending at Dinas Emrys and the valley, and found himself repeating the prophecy silently, lips moving with the words.

_At Dinas Emrys fiery core, the ancient magic sleeps no more. The mountain high, the giant deep_ – before the day was out, he'd look upon that giant. And perhaps learn the truth about his fathers?

The canopy overhead lightened, hinted at the blue of day. _Hair of sun and gaze of sky_… Arthur. The becoming prince who would set all aright. All aright – that was kind of a lot. Merlin felt a little guilty for misleading the older boy. Probably… probably Merlin would have wanted Arthur – even a young enemy scout, even if he'd had black hair and brown eyes and nothing to do with princehood – released from captivity in Vortigern's camp. But it was a moot point, after all. Arthur _was_ the becoming prince, and Merlin had a strong suspicion that the older boy's presence was going to be necessary.

_Join the key_ – was he himself the key, then? _Lord's true key_… The dragonlord's offspring needed to unlock the dragon's resting place, somehow. _And sound the bell_.

Then again, Arthur wasn't telling him everything either, was he? Agreeing to come along – it wasn't much of a choice, really, tied to a post in a hut or tramping the woods freely on a dragon-quest – didn't make them allies. First and foremost, Arthur was a Pendragon. He held Merlin's promise to do no unauthorized magic. He had allowed the healing yesterday, but of course that was highly self-serving, wasn't it? He accepted Uther's ideas about the druids and magic, and would fight to defeat Vortigern once and for all. Vortigern, the last leader with any power who'd promised anything to the druid clans.

Merlin looked down, shifted his position, curled his fingers around the trunk of his tree to lean far out first to one side, then the other.

Arthur was gone. His bedroll had been abandoned in its place, and Merlin could not see where he had gone.

His heart seized in his chest. Without Arthur, it might be impossible for him to get to the dragon. That meant Vortigern would kill either Ruadan – or Merlin, when he returned with no solution to the earth-tremors. _Ye gods, Arthur, no_! He clenched his teeth on a sob – even Iseldir's gentle encouragement for him to embrace the destiny of an impending sacrificial death had not felt so painful an abandonment. He wanted to scream out the other boy's name from his vantage point, beg him to return.

There. Merlin's eyes caught movement, a stone's toss distant from the camp where the two soldiers slept. It was Arthur, his fair hair visible even in the pre-dawn light. He was stalking something, it looked like, silently and intently. Or – looking for something. Trying to make his way from the camp undetected? Merlin had only to open his mouth and call, and Arthur would be recaptured, forced to continue with them… he kept his silence. If Arthur was trying to make an escape, he'd help him by not betraying him… no matter what it cost. The more fool he.

No. Arthur was circling to the north, away from the direction where any forces from Camelot might be expected to come. He wasn't leaving, he was… looking for Merlin, himself.

Unseen, Merlin beamed down on the blonde head. That was princely behavior. _Becoming_. Set all aright? Yes, he could see it.

In that moment, the first rays of morning light broke over the mountain, touched Merlin in his high perch. The magic swelled, his soul sang. _Old and young beyond the wall, unlock the future with one call. Light of fire and light of sun, both become the chosen one._

Satisfied, he began to descend.

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

Arthur stewed in anxiety, caught in a decision he couldn't make. If he was clever he'd run and never look back. But there were certain principles inherent in the code of knighthood, the code of honor – though he wasn't old enough yet to prove himself worthy of the title – that taught the _right_ over the _clever_.

He had to wait. Had to give Merlin chance upon chance until all hope – and what was left was thinning mighty fast – was gone. He shivered, wondering if it would mean his death, if he'd end up regretting this inactivity bitterly.

"Morning, Arthur."

His head snapped up to meet the blue gaze of the druid boy, standing on the lowest, eye-level, branch of a tree barely two paces away, his grin mischievously good-natured.

Emotion surged through Arthur as the younger boy made ready to drop to the ground. First, overwhelming relief – he was here, he was safe, he hadn't run or betrayed or… Second, a towering rage. How could he? Sneak his way up a tree to hide and watch Arthur's fruitless search and laugh to himself? And third, a pervasive bitter embarrassment that Arthur had been tricked into lowering his guard, into caring, that he'd given this skinny sorcerer such power over his mood – his heart – in such a short time.

Arthur was unused to such a flood of strong and contradictory feelings in the space of a breath. Merlin leaped – he landed – he began to straighten. Arthur's hand rose with the swelling of vehement passion inside, and shoved the other boy before he had full control of his balance.

Merlin tumbled back on the ground, caught completely unaware by the violence of the motion. For a moment he lay there, staring at Arthur with his mouth dropped open in disbelief.

Another emotion took Arthur by surprise, in that moment. Shame. Red, hot shame – he was an ass and a bully. He should apologize, help the boy up, dust him off – he resisted, hating the feeling, hating the scrawny, big-eyed idiot for making him _feel_. A Pendragon is never wrong. A Pendragon doesn't apologize, he justifies.

"Next time, Merlin," he hissed, "Try telling someone where you're going _before_ you disappear without warning."

So he wouldn't have to watch the parade of Merlin's own reactions move clearly across the boy's face, he turned and stomped away, back to the camp-circle. He wished for his own sword, and a straw practice dummy to take his frustration out on. He rolled his blanket with vicious efficiency, and tended to the nominal meal preparations with the waking soldiers.

Merlin crept after him soundlessly, sharing in the few chores, the few bites, wary and subdued. It was an awful change from the open, eager boyishness of the previous afternoon and evening, and Arthur knew it was his fault. He cursed himself, and wished this quest was already over.

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

Merlin lay on the ground under the tree, momentarily stunned, and tried to catch his breath.

When Alvarr had done similar things, his face had shown nothing but animosity, a grim delight at causing Merlin pain. But from Arthur's expression, he could see that the shove had been reflexive temper, almost as surprising to the older boy as it had been to him. Consternation, embarrassment, even a flicker of concern, before he'd covered it all with a volatile irritation.

Merlin picked himself up slowly and followed. Through breakfast, he kept his distance and his silence, wary of provoking another outburst, not because of any pain or humiliation to himself, but because he'd identified Arthur's final feeling – regret, and he did not want to be the reason that the older boy would feel such again. Whatever had caused his mood that morning, Merlin thought he could still believe that such actions were unusual for the older boy, and whether he ever said he was sorry – not that he needed to – Merlin could see that he was, and forgive him.

And that had nothing to do with the continuation of their quest.

Merlin was the first of the four ready to leave. The soldiers, however, showed the same reluctance to proceed in the dawn light as they had in the twilight gloom.

"We're close," Merlin ventured to say, hoping to reassure them. "It's just down the valley, half a league, maybe."

"The door is in the grove?" Benley said, with a glance at his red-headed fellow. "And then the cave?" Merlin nodded, trying to control his impatience. "And you'll come back the same way?"

"I don't know," Merlin said honestly.

The red-haired soldier kicked the ground, crossed his arms over his chest and stared behind Merlin in the direction of the grove. "We're staying here," he said, bluntly and abruptly. "We'll wait til mid-afternoon. That'll get us back to camp by sunset. If you're not here…" He shrugged.

If they didn't return, with or without the dragon, Ruadan's life was forfeit. Merlin wondered how that would affect Vortigern's relations with the other elders – if they would hasten to appease him and renew the agreement, or whether they would retreat from contact.

"We want half the supplies, then," Arthur said.

The two exchanged a look, and Benley tossed a full water-skin to the older boy. "If you get hungry, hurry back," he said sarcastically.

So Merlin and Arthur set off, together and alone. The silence felt awkward at first, but as they approached the grove and the magic and the life thrummed very nearly audibly around him, he found the significance of that tension draining away.

"Slow down, will you?" Arthur spoke to him for the first time, mildly.

Instead of responding with a saucy, _Keep up!_ Merlin threw a shy smile over his shoulder and said, "Sorry. We're so close. It – pulls at me. Do you feel it?"

Behind him, Arthur's footsteps halted, and Merlin turned. The older boy studied the land behind him, just as the two soldiers had done, hands on his hips, head cocked as if he was listening for something. "Not a pull, no," he said. "But I feel – something. Attention. Like we're being watched – it feels like how my weapons instructor watches my training…" Merlin waited, and Arthur's eyes returned to him. After a moment, the older boy gave him a rueful smile, and continued forward. "Let's go," he suggested only.

Arthur was taller than he by three inches, maybe, but the energy that throbbed from the heart of the grove fairly lifted Merlin, floated him on the breeze, so the older boy had a hard time keeping up. Merlin felt bad about that, but only for a moment before pressing on again.

When Merlin thought _grove_, he pictured an exact circle of oak trees and a clearing in the center. He sensed the exact moment when he entered the iris of this eye of magic – it was like the cleansing wash of magic and water that had been poured over his head prior to the intended sacrifice. He stopped in place and closed his eyes in bliss, letting the sensation trickle down his skin like snow shoved down his collar to melt. But looking around, he could see no visible indications of the placement of the sacred site.

There was, however, a roughly-round opening in the side of the bank to his right. A cave. An actual cave, leading, by its direction, back south toward the mount of Dinas Emrys. He shivered, the cooling sensation ominous on the back of his neck, now. This wasn't the treetop magic he loved, light and free and generous – this was the earth magic of the druids. Dark and secret and unpredictable. It called to him and sang to him, still, but not with the carefree voice of a playmate. There was an edge of authoritative demand that he didn't understand, and it frightened him.

"This is it then?" Arthur said behind him, and though there was apprehension in his voice as well, Merlin was inordinately glad of his presence. "You want to go on, alone?"

Merlin turned to look at the older boy. "The druids have a prophecy about Dinas Emrys," he said. "Have you heard it?"

"Not really." Arthur shrugged carelessly, but remained just outside the grove proper, though there was no delineating landmark. He glanced at the trees, the rocks – but his gaze wandered right over the entrance to the cave. A crooked grin threatened. "Something else you'll be in trouble for telling an outsider?"

But he wasn't an outsider. Not with a part to play, fulfilling prophecy.

Merlin spoke, repeating the verses, watching the older boy's expression go from polite interest to fascination to doubt – and then close off completely. After a moment of silence, Merlin said tentatively, "I – we – think you're him. The becoming prince. Hair of sun and gaze of sky…" He faltered. That gaze was downright chilly.

"The bell will ring to let him by?" Arthur said. "So when you claimed that you bargained with Vortigern for my freedom, if not my life, that was a lie. You knew you needed me to –" he flapped a hand to indicate the grove, and ended sarcastically, "ring the bell?"

Merlin felt wretched. The magic watched him, drew him, and he did not want to be alone, regardless of what the prophecy foretold. But at least his elders had been straight with him, telling him the truth, trusting him to make the right decision. Or – he thought of Iseldir – _take magic's soul, the scope of your destiny… calling you _there_, to _go_ – that is all I will say._ Had he known, or suspected?

"The thing about prophecy, it's rarely understood until after its fulfillment." Merlin added miserably, "I should have told you, but I thought… you might not come."

Arthur stepped forward into the grove, came so close that Merlin could hear him breathing. "You might have given me the chance to agree," he said impassively. "So where's this bell?"

"I don't know if it's an actual _bell_," Merlin hedged, and Arthur's eyes flashed. He hastened to add, gesturing to the cave, "But I'd guess it's in there."

"In where, Merlin?"

"The – cave," Merlin said in confusion. "Right there."

"There is no cave." Arthur amended obstinately, "I don't see a cave."

Merlin looked at the opening again, and could make out a faint blurry shimmer around its mouth – hidden to those without magic, he assumed. He supposed it would make sense that each would need the other – _join the key_ – but something about that bothered him, some question that hadn't occurred to him to ask, yet. He turned and stepped to the mouth of the cave, reaching one arm into it to show its placement, and turned to see that Arthur had followed him, catching the incredulous aversion of the older boy. It probably looked to him as though Merlin had put his arm through solid rock.

Merlin suggested awkwardly, "Perhaps you would feel better closing your eyes?" _He'd_ feel better closing his eyes. "I'll lead you…"

Arthur's gaze was dark and expressionless on him for several moments, and he realized what reliance he was asking from the Pendragon's son, to complete a task set by the Pendragon's enemy. To show a trust he did not feel.

"The tower," Merlin said haltingly, "and the fighting – your father and the general – I want to stop it. I don't want a war, people getting hurt. I don't know how I can help, what I'm supposed to do, but I know I was brought to Dinas Emrys for a reason. For _this_. For freeing the dragon. And then afterward –"

"We decide what to do about all else," Arthur said, and Merlin was flooded with warmth, not only at the understanding and acceptance shown by the older boy – the _prince_ - in that moment, but at his word _we_. The blue eyes slid shut, and one hand pushed forward. Merlin flinched, but Arthur made only an impatient flick of his fingers. Merlin's face flushed as he recalled his own suggestion, and he took the proffered hand, beginning to lead him forward into the cave's entrance.

He ducked, then glanced back to warn his companion about the low clearance of the cave's mouth – and Arthur entered the cave without so much as brushing his sun-colored hair on the roof of it. Merlin said nothing and walked on, slowly. In spite of the enchantment at the opening, plenty of sunlight filtered into the passage, and he was glad for that. The air was cool, but he had his cloak, and he was glad for that. He was glad for the pressure of Arthur's fingers –

"If you ever, Merlin," Arthur said, "tell anyone, that we held hands, I will –" his imagination for a sufficient threat seemed to fail him – "I will –"

"I won't," Merlin said, glad also that the atmosphere could be relieved with humor. The farther in they went, the more reluctant he felt to continue – even as the magic and the knowledge of the waiting dragon demanded his compliance. It was a battle between head and heart – knowing what was to be done, and feeling like he'd rather be anywhere but here.

They shuffled forward slowly. There were totems, symbols and runes displayed in stick and string figures, hung against the curved walls and dangling from the ceiling. Merlin was careful not to touch them – glancing back, he saw that Arthur avoided them also, blindly, unknowingly. He tried not to look at them, but they snatched his attention. _Trespass not, you do not belong_. The enchantment on the outside of the cave was meant to divert those without magic – the interior was layered with more warnings to discourage those with magic, who could see and chose to enter.

There were other objects on the gritty floor. A short-handled shovel, discarded. A carved wooden spear. An axe. Moldering fabric – bones, maybe – he looked away resolutely.

Where the tunnel began to widen, Merlin stopped, sensing a cavern ahead.

"What is it?" Arthur said, the tension in his voice not of fear, but of courage readied. "Shall I open my eyes yet?"

"Ssh," Merlin said, his ears straining.

"Do you hear the bell ringing?" Arthur was probably trying to lighten their spirits with a joke, but the heightened awareness of the situation sobered the question.

"I hear – water," Merlin answered. He dropped the older boy's hand and stepped forward carefully. In the middle of the cavern was a depression, he knelt beside it as a droplet fell from above, disturbing the dark surface briefly. He looked up; there was an elaborate totem, gleaming faintly with amethyst light – crystals and feathers and glass prisms of the length and width of a man's finger – suspended from the ceiling of the cave. Moisture dripped from the crystals down to the pool. He looked around – the chamber appeared to have no other outlet but the tunnel where they had entered.

And the pool. He reached his hand down –

Arthur hissed out a curse. "Hells, Merlin, what is it with you and sticking your hand into –" Merlin looked up as Arthur stepped forward, his eyes open.

The air stirred in the cavern. Not like a wind or breeze, flowing from one place to another, but – like a breath. Over Merlin's head, the totem swung, spun gently – and the crystals and prisms chimed together, the tones melodious, hanging in the air. There was almost a tune… and the lower, metallic note of a clapper striking the rounded hollow of a bell. Merlin _looked_, and above the totem he saw the golden skirt of a bell, a gleaming ring. He hardly dared breathe.

Against his fingertips, the water swirled in the depression, gurgling faintly like a stream. Arthur knelt at his side in a rush, snatching his hand away as the water sucked at the sides of the pool, dropping away like a filled funnel unstopped.

And then they found themselves gazing down an empty shaft, the sides gleaming black and wet – like a monstrous throat. Merlin shivered and tore his eyes away, looking up – the totem was clear crystal, no amethyst glow of waiting magic, no gleaming bell-base circle.

Arthur put his hands on the edge of the rim and leaned forward, peering into the depths. "The bell will ring," he said, with sardonic incredulity. "We're supposed to go down there? This is the door?"

Merlin cleared his throat. "Yeah, I'm afraid so," he said.

"We don't even know how deep this is," Arthur said. "Or what we might be climbing down into." He raised his eyes to Merlin's. After a moment, he quirked one eyebrow expectantly. "Well?"

"Well, what?" Merlin was trying not to panic at the idea of sinking farther into the earth – _swallowed up_, he thought, and immediately wished he hadn't.

"Make yourself useful," Arthur instructed him. "A torch, or a ladder, or –" Merlin held out his cupped hand, concentrated on his mage-light. The blue sphere appeared, an inch above his palm, illuminating their faces and the descending shaft. Arthur said cryptically, "A weird mage-light down a dark tunnel." He sounded unhappily resigned.

Merlin understood; it was how he felt as well. But if there was one thing the druids had taught him well, it was that destiny could not be thwarted, only accepted. He focused on the shaft - intending to try to see the bottom, he tipped his hand to let the mage-light sink through the air.

The older boy exclaimed and made as if to catch it, then snatched his hand back like he was afraid he would be burned.

The spark of amusement both reactions generated settled Merlin. "I'm not going to drop it," he said, calling the light momentarily up to his palm to demonstrate his control. "And it won't hurt you; it's not hot."

Arthur reached tentatively, glanced at Merlin as if for permission to bring his hand closer and prove the words true. Merlin nodded – and before he could voice any further explanation or instruction, the older boy had thrust his fingers straight through Merlin's magic.

He gasped. It felt as though Arthur had reached into his chest to stroke his beating heart. Tears blurred his eyes – now he knew why his instructors had made that rule so clear to their druid pupils – to never touch another's mage-light. He blinked, and saw that Arthur was staring fascinated at the residual blue-white glimmer on the skin of his hand. Merlin thought vaguely that he might now be able to draw the design of lines and ridges of that hand – but he was no artist.

"I'm sorry, did that hurt you?" Arthur's voice seemed to come from a long way away, whispering right into his ear at the same time.

"No," Merlin managed. His hand was shaking beneath the oblivious mage-light, and he tilted it off once more, to disguise the tremor.

This time they both leaned over the edge to watch its descent, light and shadow playing on the rough-hewn curves, until the reflection shone from three sides and the floor. The darkness of their indicated path led deeper into the mount; there was only the remaining sheen of water to prove the pool had ever been full, no indication where it had drained to.

"That's about twenty feet down," Arthur said. "How are you at climbing?"

Merlin couldn't help smiling. "Well, it's no tree," he said. "But I'll manage."

He dropped his cloak into the hole, where it passed through the mage-light unhindered. Then he seated himself on the edge, swinging his legs across it, then scooted into the shaft, bracing himself arms and legs. This sort of climbing was much easier to do going up, but he reached the bottom and let himself drop the five feet to the floor, elbows and tailbone sore, a scrape or two on his back under the dampness of his shirt. Nothing to worry about. He moved out of the vertical into the horizontal tunnel to be out of Arthur's way, as the older boy dropped the water-skin to prepare for his descent.

The tunnel wasn't straight, but it was definitely man- or magic-made. Roughly five feet from floor to ceiling, and three across, it appeared to wind to the right and left, as well as slanting up and down. Merlin did not know much of the magic or engineering that would be required for such a feat, whether the tunnel followed natural weaknesses in the earth and rock, or whether it bored through the strongest sections to provide greater stability for the hollow space.

Arthur dropped beside him and rested in his crouch, studying the tunnel ahead of them as Merlin did. "I have a question," the older boy said, his voice whispering and echoing oddly. He gestured first up the shaft, then forward down the tunnel. "How does a dragon get through here in the first place?"

The back of his shirt felt clammy on Merlin's skin, and he picked his cloak up again, draping the material over one shoulder but not adjusting it properly. Mage-light in hand, and ducking his head against the low ceiling, he began to walk forward. Arthur followed him, and immediately a thunderous gurgling sound filled the tunnel. He whirled back toward the shaft, Arthur between it and him doing the same, tensing in preparation for action.

Merlin had once seen a waterspout created by a visiting druid elder, a whirl of wind sucking up a stream to form a spinning rising column of air and water. The rushing noise quieted, and the end of the tunnel showed the liquid ripple of a pool's surface. It gave him the odd sense that his equilibrium was skewed, that he should be looking _down_ at water, not _across_…

"Let's go," Arthur whispered. He sounded unnerved as well, and prodded Merlin to turn and continue down the tunnel. He did not ask if their retreat was now blocked, and Merlin did not speculate on an answer.

They walked for the better part of an hour, by Merlin's estimation, though it was hard to tell in the tunnel. He felt like he'd been walking all his life – like the bruises from Alvarr's fists and feet that Ruadan had washed away without comment were once again painted on his body. He'd spent a day walking to Dinas Emrys from the druid camp – up the mount prepared to die a loyal druid – down the mount a newborn dragonlord. Now he was walking beneath Dinas Emrys.

He was thankful that the insistence of the magic had subsided to a faint presence only – though he suspected it might flare again in his consciousness if he were to turn tail and flee back toward the shaft and the bell-cave. His hand trembled constantly now under the blue mage-light, the constant expenditure from his reserves of latent magic. Even an elder might be hard-pressed to sustain such magic this long – however powerful he was, he was young yet and unpracticed.

"Have some water," Arthur offered, over the echoing sound of their boots on the tunnel floor. "Do you want to rest?"

Merlin reached back for the water-skin and took a mouthful before answering. "No, I just want to get to the end."

"So, in your prophecy…" Arthur's words were faintly mocking; Merlin understood that the older boy, training in physical combat, was dealing with the same sort of shock Merlin had experienced, struggling to accept that his part of history and destiny might be foretold, inevitable, the only way he knew how – sarcastic humor. "I'm a prince. Don't you think you should say, _my lord_, then, or _sire_. _Your Highness_."

"Becoming prince," Merlin retorted. "Not yet, but almost certainly soon."

"Mm hm. So who are you, then? What part of the prophecy – the soul of magic? The lord's key?"

_Both, maybe_. Merlin twisted his shoulders, not looking back.

"Cenred said, _you_ can't be a dragonlord," Arthur said, in the same sardonic tone.

A smile twisting his lips, Merlin answered, "Cenred has no imagination."

"It's true, then." Arthur's voice was now expressionless; Merlin was coming to recognize that meant not the lack of emotion, but the suppression of it. He stopped and turned, allowing the light to float for a moment. He reached into the neck of the borrowed shirt to bring out the pendant. Arthur said, "Your charm?" He stepped closer to take the piece and examine it.

"My mother gave it to me, before I left," Merlin said, letting his trembling hands drop to his sides. "It was my father's."

"Who was your father?" Arthur said, his eyes on the small silver dragon balanced on his fingertips.

Merlin hesitated. He'd only known the name, the story of his father for two days, a light bandage only over a wound long unacknowledged. The additional discovery of the dragonlord heritage, responsibility – the danger it might place him in, young as he was. The fear and revulsion of a druid, and of him especially even inside that community, could only be expected to increase. This son of Pendragon was so far outside the circle of people who might be expected to comprehend such a thing, to appreciate and support…

"Balinor was my father," he said. "And, so I'm told, Aurelian was his."

"A dragonlord?" Arthur let the ornament fall against Merlin's collarbone, and he reached instinctively to tuck it back in his shirt.

"Known to the dragon," he said. And to the druid elders, evidently. He turned to keep walking, but at a much slower pace.

"You said _was_. What happened?"

Merlin twitched his shoulders again. He found his mouth was dry and his heart pounded. He let the mage-light soar on its own again momentarily, to wipe his hands on his shirtfront. "Not really sure. My mother said it was several strangers – he was killed the week before they said their vows… right in front of her."

"Huh." The scorn in Arthur's tone was residual, but present, as though Merlin had taken the conversation too seriously, too quickly. But the casual cruelty in his next question stopped Merlin's heart, and feet. "You're a bastard, then?"

The drain on his magic had shortened his temper, and his spirit had run an emotional gauntlet for far too long. _Bastard_, said Alvarr's voice. And that was what Arthur had gotten from Merlin's intimate confidence. He clenched his fingers around the material of his cloak, squeezed the fingers of the other hand into a fist. He turned.

The ghost of a smirk crossed the older boy's face. "What about your mother, what's she like?"

Merlin snapped. Dropping his cloak, he launched himself at the older boy.

**A/N: Thank you to everyone who has taken the time to review, and I have not taken the time to PM! You are all appreciated!**


	8. Beyond the Wall

**Chapter 8: Beyond the Wall **

_So join the key and sound the bell_

_Descend into the flaming hell._

_Old and young beyond the wall_

_Unlock the future with one call_

…..*…..

The druid boy's attack took Arthur completely by surprise.

He didn't like where he was. Through a sacred grove, into a invisible cave, down a magic well. The ringing bell foretold two decades before his birth sounding merely – if prophecy and his own senses were to be believed – for his presence.

Hard enough to live – to work and learn and train and behave – under the weight of responsibility of a warlord's oldest and only son. Hard enough that his warlord father wanted to be king – which meant that Arthur faced ruling a kingdom also, after his success and death. And now, to have the expectations of fulfilling prophecy put on him? He was inadequate, unprepared, unfit – for any of it. He hated that his one purely selfish choice had served only to show him that it hadn't been a choice at all, but destiny.

And Merlin, the impossibly young, surprisingly intelligent – the one of whom his heart said, _trust_, and his head said, _can't_ – had led him through this foreign world of magic so cheerfully and nonchalantly he found himself covering his fear and disguising his increasing inclination to affection with glib conversation.

And then, it seemed, they balanced on the brink of something deeply personal, with no warning to Arthur. Fathers – men – defended and died every day. As for the truth of the dragonlord heritage, well, his father had been wrong before. A boy who called the druids' code of magic dark and uncomfortably secret could not be an "evil distortion". Morgana, he found himself thinking, would be Merlin's fast friend instantly on the basis of their illegitimate birth alone. It was a curiosity, nothing more. A detail fairly insignificant in a world that judged a man on his deeds and abilities. And when the boy said, _my mother_, Arthur felt a wistful jealousy. He wanted to hear more.

The look on Merlin's face – pale rage – was scant warning, and came too late for Arthur to watch his careless tongue.

But he was a fighter, trained for years. Instincts kicked in, and he bent backward to duck Merlin's right fist, his own hand rising to trap the skinny wrist, twist the arm behind the boy's back as his own momentum carried him past Arthur. He was young, and light, and unused to hand-to-hand fighting – Arthur tripped him almost gently to the ground.

Merlin fought like a wild thing, with his whole body, according to no code or rules Arthur had ever been taught; he caught an elbow to his jaw and a glancing kick at the small of his back before he gained the upper hand. He was older, and heavier, and though he was still too shocked and confused for any temper-fueled aggression, it was moments only before he had the younger boy facedown on the ground. His right hand at the base of Merlin's neck, his left twisting Merlin's left arm up between his shoulder blades, Merlin's right arm trapped between Arthur's knee and his own body, Arthur's straddling weight across his hips holding him helpless.

Even then, the druid boy didn't stop struggling and kicking. Arthur might have laughed, if he wasn't so bemused.

It was a common thing, among the training classes, for unequal pairings during sparring sessions. _You won't always face your equal on the battlefield_, they were told. _There will always be someone bigger, faster, stronger, smarter_… sometimes cast as the dominant partner, but not always – it was embarrassing, but it was also enlightening. _Is that all you've got_, was often said. But Arthur couldn't say it, now.

He'd contained Merlin's violence with surprising, ease, but the boy had a tenacious, wiry strength, and Arthur was afraid he'd end up hurting himself – or making Arthur do more damage, stopping him.

"Will you knock it off!" he said, crouching low to hiss the words right into Merlin's ear. He realized that the boy was sobbing in furious frustration; he knew that sense of humiliated helplessness, and hated it, too.

"Get off!" Merlin panted. "Get – off – me!"

"Not until I'm sure we're done with this," Arthur said. Whatever _this_ was, he was still confused.

"You –" Merlin heaved against him, once again using every muscle he had to try to force his freedom.

Arthur pushed him down into the floor of the cave, grinding his cheek into the dust and increasing the strain on his arm. "Stop fighting me, Merlin," he said. It was an odd mix of emotion, to find himself so easily triumphant, and yet ashamed of his victory.

"Fine!" Merlin gasped, and went limp.

Arthur released him warily, rising on his knees. The younger boy sobbed again, scrambling, crawling away from him. He collapsed in a heap at the base of the tunnel wall, and Arthur lowered himself to a more comfortable sitting position, feet flat, knees up and bent.

"You're an ass and a bully, Pendragon," Merlin snarled. There were tears on his cheeks, sparkling pale.

Arthur felt guilty, then annoyed. "If you recall, you took a swing at me," he pointed out. "You had to know what would happen. Some all-powerful sorcerer you are – it wasn't even a challenge to have you eating dirt!"

Blue eyes glittered under the dusty mess of black hair. Merlin mumbled wrathfully, "Made me promise… _you're_ the bastard. An arrogant, selfish–"

"Is that was this was about?" Arthur said incredulously. "That word?"

"You don't even know," Merlin spat at him, rubbing at the moisture on his face. Arthur didn't have the heart to tell him he was just leaving dirty streaks that made him look younger.

"Listen, Merlin, that doesn't mean anything," Arthur told him. "No one who cares about you is going to care about that. You told me your parents were a week away from their vows, right?" A pause. The tousled head nodded grudgingly. "So _you_ know the truth of their relationship. Shouldn't bother you what other people think – just show them they're wrong. Your mother – I guess she must be amazing." Merlin gave him a suspicious look, slowly pushing himself up to sitting. "I mean, did she know she was marrying into dragonlord blood?" Another pause, another grudging shake of the head. "Would it have mattered to her?"

The fury drained slowly from blue eyes. Merlin wiped his nose on his sleeve, grimaced, and shook his head and shrugged at the same time.

"She managed to raise you on her own, that can't have been easy," Arthur pointed out. "Bet you made her life hell some days."

Merlin huffed and rolled his eyes. But there was a small smile there, too.

"I want to meet her," Arthur said, startling himself with the truth and intensity of the statement. "When all this is over, I want to meet your mother."

Merlin nodded. His gaze fell away from Arthur's for a brief second, then his eyes widened and darted back. "You – you didn't have a mother," he whispered hoarsely. Arthur shrugged. "I'm sorry," Merlin said.

"Yeah, me too." For this morning, he wanted to say, but he didn't want to embarrass them both by bringing it up. Merlin seemed to understand, though, giving him a tentative smile.

"What we're doing," the druid boy said slowly. "It's not _easy_. Or _nice_." He raised the cuff of his oversize shirt to the corner of his eye.

Arthur snorted at the understatement. "Let's get on with it, then?" he said, getting his feet under him and straightening as much as the low-hanging ceiling would allow. He gathered the dropped cloak, then reached his hand to help the other boy up.

Merlin took a moment to draw in a deep breath, and let it out slowly, then ducked his head and held out his hand. The ball of blue light – Arthur now realized it had stayed lit somehow through their altercation, and reconsidered his insult to the druid boy's power – bobbed over Merlin's palm, and Arthur followed him once again down the tunnel, tucking the cloak under his arm against future need.

His stomach was beginning to pinch in a reminder of passing time, when the weary rhythm of Merlin's stride faltered. Arthur looked over his shoulder and saw what seemed at first glance to be a leafless thorn-bush blocking the whole tunnel. Then his perception shifted, and he realized that the blue mage-light reflected back at then from the end of the passage, the stone marked with a black pattern.

Arthur stopped to gaze around them in disbelief – nothing else had changed. Curving walls of the tunnel, more or less even floor, low roof. No other openings to other passageways, not even an ominous pool of water on the floor. Just a dead end, as though whoever had burrowed this far beneath the mount simply wearied of their task and abandoned it.

What now? He was sure they hadn't missed any other tunnels branching off, unless they were hidden with magic again – in which case Merlin would have seen them, right? Merlin was examining the end of the tunnel, the whirls and patterns carved and painted on the stone. His long fingers trailed over the wall, tracing and crossing as he examined it closely.

"Does it say anything?" Arthur said.

"No." Merlin sounded confused. He scratched at one of the markings with his fingernail, then leaned close to sniff it. "I'm not familiar with these symbols at all." He stepped back to consider the effect as a whole, then shook his head.

"Well, there must be something," Arthur said, stubbornly logical. The builder would not have bothered putting the pattern here if it was a false trail, a dead end. "Is it another door? Can magic open it? You can try that, can't you?"

Merlin backed up beside Arthur, settled his stance, then raised his palm toward the wall. Not knowing what to expect, Arthur cringed a little as the druid boy spoke, words that for Arthur held no meaning.

Nothing happened. There was no effect that Arthur could see. Merlin made a thoughtful noise, and spoke again; Arthur could tell that it was a different spell, but that was all. Again, nothing. The boy's other hand rose and he leaned forward like he was physically pushing at the stone, and recited yet another spell in a commanding tone – and either it was a very long, complicated spell, or else he tried two or three with each subsequent breath.

No success. Beside Arthur, Merlin panted and shuddered, and he watched a bead of sweat roll down the side of the boy's face. "Hey," he said, putting his hand on the thin shoulder, "leave it for now."

Merlin didn't look at him; if intensity of gaze alone could break through the barrier, it would have tumbled down in that instant. He made a fist with his right hand, pulled it back over his shoulder, and snapped his upper body forward, stepping into his throw like Arthur did for javelin practice. The ball of mage-light flashed forward, splashed against the stone, seeping around the black curls and points like illuminated water touching oil. And nothing else happened.

"I can't," Merlin panted. "I don't know what to do, and nothing's working, and… I can't." He shuffled forward, glared at the design, then slapped the stone in frustration. Turning his back abruptly, petulantly, he slid down to a sitting position, tucking his elbows between his knees and his body and turning his hands palms-out in front of his face.

Arthur noticed that his hands were trembling. The druid boy had been through a lot in a short time, and Arthur felt a little guilty. Even though he supposed they were still enemies in theory, he could have done more for Merlin. He unfolded the boy's cloak and clumsily tucked it around his shoulders, then put his back to the curved wall of the tunnel and slid down to rest on the floor, keeping an eye on his companion.

"Water?" he offered.

Merlin shook his head without speaking, but the movement caused the sleeves of his shirt to droop down at his elbows, exposing the tattoos. Arthur took a moment to study them, curious, and found they were actually a green so dark it was almost black. He compared the various parts of the patterns from the druid boy's forearms to the painted stone, but found no point of similarity.

"When did you have those done?" he asked idly. He found that sometimes a solution to a seemingly impossible problem would present itself at a moment of absentminded inattention.

Merlin lifted his head to catch Arthur's indication of what he meant, then turned his arms to look at them, himself. "It's done over time," he said. "They start when you prove your magic, then add to them as you learn and master the lore, and when you come of age, they're complete."

"They?" Arthur said.

"The elders." Merlin's lips twitched as he looked at Arthur. "That way you can't add to them on your own."

"Though, presumably," Arthur offered with a humor, "the elders could."

The twitch became a genuine smile, if small. "That would be highly dishonorable," Merlin said. "Much like calling yourself a knight if you haven't earned the recognition, I expect."

"Mm." Arthur took a swallow of their water. "What if you learn more after you're of age?"

Merlin rubbed his arms together. "You're expected to," he said. "No one ever quits learning, it's just – an indication of the accomplishments of a student."

Arthur thought of his sister. And Gaius, who to know knowledge, did not have a single tattoo. "That's just within the druid clans – not for outsiders who study sorcery?" Merlin nodded. "So when was your first, then? How old were you when you proved your magic?" He thought of his own first "real" sparring match, when he was allowed to use more than a wooden sword on more than a practice dummy. He'd been nine, scared out of his wits that he'd hurt someone – his opponent, himself, a bystander – or disappoint his father.

"Four." Merlin hugged his arms around his chest and looked away. Arthur thought, _why wasn't that memory a good one?_ and then Merlin's claim caught up to him.

"You did magic when you were four years old?" he asked. A memory of the boy's voice flickered through his mind, _the earlier it manifests the stronger it is_…

"Proof of magic requires two adult unrelated witnesses," Merlin corrected softly.

"Ye gods," Arthur said without thinking. "You were doing magic _before_ you were four years old?" Merlin twitched in a self-conscious shrug; Arthur huffed and shook his head.

"What?" Merlin asked, resting his head on his knees where he could see Arthur's face.

"My father," Arthur said, trying to keep the bitterness out of his tone. Uther Pendragon was his father, after all, owed his respect and love and allegiance, no matter what. Undeniably a clever strategist, inarguably ambitious – and determined to bring peace to the land as its king. "He – taught me about magic-users. But it seems he let a certain – I don't know, call it prejudice – get in the way of the facts."

Merlin spoke slowly, as though he wanted to be sure his words would not offend Arthur. "It seems to me that Uther Pendragon creates enemies where none need be."

Where none need be. Arthur was acutely aware that being his father's heir meant more than one thing. For now, he was expected to walk in his father's footsteps, to learn and mature and be the first to uphold all Uther's statutes. But one day… he'd be making his own allies, his own policy. He shivered, and a moment later, Merlin involuntarily copied the action.

Arthur examined the younger boy more closely. His whole body seemed to be trembling now - only it wasn't even a bit chilly, and the air, though not dangerously stale, was still. He looked a bit paler than usual, though in the blue of the mage-light splashed on the decorated stone, it was hard to tell.

"Are you all right?" Arthur said suddenly.

Merlin laughed – or coughed, Arthur couldn't tell. The mage-light following the dark pattern on the rock flickered, winked, then the druid boy gasped and the tunnel was flooded with darkness. "I'm sorry," Merlin whispered faintly. "I'll call it back if you –"

"It's all right," Arthur said. The darkness made him a little nervous – it felt close, and aware, somehow – but his home was a fort of dark stone, and it wasn't entirely dissimilar to the effect of his bedroom at night, in the summer when the hearth was left cold. Except for the near echo of their breathing, and the companionship of another there with him.

"Does your prophecy have anything to say about this?" Arthur asked.

"_Join the key and sound the bell, descend into the flaming hell_," Merlin said.

"You know, that part concerns me a bit," Arthur said lightly.

"After that," Merlin said, with a smile in his voice, "It's _Old and young beyond the wall, unlock the future with one call_." After a pause, he added, "Only I've _tried_ that."

"Tried asking the dragon?" Arthur said, and chuckled to himself. If his father could have heard that question, that tone, from his mouth, he'd be – he'd be disowned, or declared captive to an enchantment, or something.

"Yes." Merlin's voice was little more than a sigh. "He won't answer me."

"So we're on our own?" Arthur waited, but there was no answer in the dark. "Merlin?" He turned his face instinctively toward the druid boy, though the darkness was absolute and he had no expectation of seeing him… but he realized he could see something.

A tiny pinpoint of – not light exactly, but of _not-dark_. He blinked to see if something was wrong with his eyes, some residual imaginary speck left over from the mage-light, his mind hoping for something so strongly his eyes responded. But it was still there.

"What is that?" he said aloud, pushing himself to his feet and raising one hand to keep from bashing his head on the roof of the tunnel.

Merlin made a sleepy questioning noise, and as Arthur stepped forward, his boot bumped the younger boy gently. He shifted in response, and Arthur was reassured. His outstretched fingertips found the light spot on the wall, covered it, felt the irregularity in the carving.

"Hey, Merlin," Arthur said, an idea occurring. "Does the prophecy mean that you _are_ the key, or that you _have_ it?"

"Prophecy…" Merlin took a breath, "often has more than one application of fulfillment. Why?"

"May I try something?" Arthur said. "With your charm?" He heard shuffling, like the boy was struggling to get up, and bent in the darkness to grab hold with one hand and lift him up.

"You need a light?" Merlin said.

"Yes, please." Arthur kept his finger over the small scratch in the rock, as Merlin's blue mage-light flickered back into existence. It was noticeably smaller and fainter, but still sufficient. Merlin pulled the charm out from his shirt, tugged the cord over his head, and dropped it into Arthur's hand.

He hefted it a moment, such a light piece, and simply made. All this boy had of a father he'd never known. A symbol of a life he'd never lived, responsibilities placed on him which he'd never trained for. It was as if he held Merlin's heart, his destiny, there in the palm of his hand. Given freely and immediately, without question or reservation, merely at Arthur's asking.

"What?" Merlin said.

"Nothing." Arthur's smile felt strange on his lips. "I just – nothing." Focusing on the small dragon charm, Arthur turned it between his fingers, and brought it to the flaw he'd marked. He inserted the winding tail of the charm into the scratch experimentally – and it sunk all the way in. Arthur had time to think, _how am I going to turn the key_, and the stone grated, shifting.

It shuddered, and Merlin reached to grasp the cord of his charm, just behind Arthur's hand. The tunnel itself seemed to shiver in the dim blue light, to ripple with incomprehensible power, and then the barrier crumbled. Small chunks of stone tumbled over their feet, over Merlin's cloak fallen on the floor of the tunnel. Dust rose to choke them, then swirled away behind them.

Arthur could have sworn that the dragon charm _roared_. Pain flared in his fingers and he snatched his hand back, dropping the piece with an exclamation of surprise and discomfort. It swung from Merlin's hand and _glowed_ golden in spite of the mage-light, the reflection a bright point of light in the boy's eyes as he met Arthur's, and then the mage-light disappeared again.

The charm was as good as a candle. Dim, but they could see the next few steps of tunnel before the floor exceeded the walls. He bent to yank the cloak out from under the rubble of the fallen wall, and they scrambled over the collapsed barrier and moved forward together, finding themselves on a ledge. To each side, the tiny dragon-light reflected stone walls like the tunnel had emptied them into a vast cavern. Above, below, beyond – all else was darkness.

"Is the whole damn hill _hollow_?" Arthur said in disbelief.

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

The darkness breathed around Merlin, enveloped and embraced him. It smelled hot like fire, acrid like woodsmoke, like sulfur and power and magic.

He stepped to the end of the ledge and flung his arms out like he could leap and fly, and called out, his voice shaky with exultation, "At Dinas Emrys fiery core, the ancient magic sleeps –" he took a breath to keep from crying or laughing or simply passing out – "_no more_!" From the depths of his heart, like his magic, deep and unchecked but somehow changed and increased, passion welled up, furious and insistent. Rising from his chest, through his throat, he threw back his head and released the call, "_Oh, drakon! E male so ftengometta tesd'hup'anankes_!"

He felt Arthur's arms around him, supporting him, pulling him back from the edge.

There were stars now in the vast black distance, coming out as pinpoints of light. He watched them dance and sparkle, move and rearrange. The glow increased and drew nearer, and he identified the glittering constellation as a dragon. It came closer and closer; it was enormous, and yet it was still a good distance away, powerful leathery wings beating in sure strokes. Merlin's heart leaped at the wild and dominant independence and yearned to join with it.

As it came, the light increased though no source was identifiable, til it equaled that of a dozen well-placed torches. He found that his fingers were cramped around the thong of his mother's necklace, and they shook as he unwrapped them and slipped the loop over his head again.

It didn't seem that there would be room to _fly_, exactly, but the dragon's wings were unfurled as he leaped to an outcropping and dropped his head to a level with the ledge. For a moment Merlin and the dragon simply studied one another.

Giant was right, Merlin thought dazedly. From jawbone to eye-ridge, the head was as tall as he was. The teeth as long as his arm, the claws that crumbled the rock of his perch as thick as Merlin's thigh. His scales were the dark red-gold of fire's heart, glittering and shifting tones, lighter on the belly and facial features, darkening to the muddy brown-red of dried blood on the wings. The molten eyes blinked at him and he found himself responding as he'd never responded to another being in his entire life.

Without breaking their eye contact, Merlin bent at his waist in a bow.

The dragon seemed pleased, and inclined its head in return. "Well met, young warlock," he said, with a voice like rock grinding. By Arthur's intake of breath, Merlin judged the older boy could hear and understand the dragon also. His gaze shifted to the older boy, and Merlin could sense a turmoil of emotion from the beast, ranging from light-hearted amusement to tragic melancholy. "How small you are," he sighed, addressing them both, "for such a great destiny."

Merlin spoke without thinking, "Why should that make you sad?"

The dragon blinked. "Because it is our young who must suffer for our mistakes," he said. "And struggle to right the wrongs that we committed." He settled into place with movement not unlike some great cat. "Face to face," he added, "let us proceed with introductions."

Merlin said, feeling foolish – the creature had already called him by name, after all – "I'm Merlin, and –"

"Son of Balinor, son of Aurelian," the dragon rumbled. "Merlin of Dinas Emrys. You are known to me. I am Kilgarrah, last of the ancients. And you, becoming prince," his gaze flicked to Arthur at Merlin's right, "what name do men call you by?"

Arthur cleared his throat, but his voice was strong when he spoke. "I am Arthur, son of the lady Ygraine de Bois and Uther Pendragon, the son of Constennin of Camelot."

"The son of Uther, the son of Constennin," Kilgarrah rumbled in his chest; Merlin sensed great wrath building. "And Arthur Pendragon – the becoming prince." He tilted his head up, shaking it slightly. "What mockery of destiny is this? It cannot be!" On the last word the great head descended like a striking snake, maw gaping – and fire roared out, hot and fast and deadly.

Merlin didn't have time to think. He extended his arms and slid sideways to block Arthur's body with his own, sure in that moment that they would both be reduced to ash.

The flames licked at his hair and clothing – whispering laughing playing. Fire was, after all, his element. He felt no fear, even when the silver pendant warmed and stirred on his breastbone. He dared open his eyes – and watched the white-hot haze of the dragon's ire split and wash away barely a foot from his body. The air around him warmed pleasantly.

He spoke reproachfully, "_Drakon, katicur. __Me ta sentende divoless – kari miss_." The creature swallowed the fire. Behind Merlin, Arthur muttered a breathless obscenity. "Kilgarrah," Merlin scolded gently, "our prince left his father to heed the call of Dinas Emrys, knowing not what he did, caring not what it might cost. He befriended me, an outcast among the clans who teach the prophecies and keep the lore. He aided me freely – without him, I would not stand here before you, ready to accomplish your freedom. Be ashamed, Kilgarrah, he deserves better from you."

The dragon seemed taken aback, but it was hard to tell as the red swirled with the gold in his vision, dark and glow, and Merlin's knees buckled.

Consciousness did not desert him entirely, however. Once again he felt Arthur's arms around him – had it even been an hour ago that he was cursing the older boy's stupid brute strength? – and felt no misgivings about letting himself relax. Arthur lowered him, stretching his length on the uncomfortably uneven ledge.

He heard Arthur snarl at the dragon, "What did you do to him?" and the tone of the older boy's voice was at odds with the gentle touch on the back of Merlin's neck and head, lifting him slightly to let him rest on a bundled softness – his cloak, he assumed.

"His magic is strong, he will be restored soon," the dragon responded, sounding chastened. Merlin might have been amused if he could have summoned the strength. "But in this case, it was his dragonlord blood and symbol which proved the shield for you both."

"Yes, and what the hell kind of explanation do you have for that?" Arthur snapped. He sounded quite close, but Merlin couldn't drag his eyes open to check on him; he sounded unhurt.

The dragon grumbled in his chest, then said, "I surrendered my self-control to my desire for revenge. For that I am ashamed, and I beg your pardon."

"Not mine, but his," Arthur's voice retorted. "Do you know what he's been through to get to you, to help you? And what have you done for him?"

"I saved his life," the dragon said mildly. "It was my words in his mind that prompted him to speak and halt the sacrifice."

"How very altruistic of you," Arthur said, still sounding angry. "Seeing as how you needed him to release you from your prison."

The dragon growled again. "That would be something that you are familiar with as well, would it not?"

A pause in the silence of the lethargic darkness that Merlin floated in. Then Arthur said, in a very different tone, "You're right. I wanted him spared only to prevent the ritual that would allow my father's enemy a stronghold – at first."

"At first," the dragon repeated in a gravelly sigh. "My lord said you befriended him, son of Pendragon. Was that assessment accurate?"

Merlin struggled to rouse, having no wish to hear these two discuss him while thinking him unaware. _Kilgarrah_, he attempted to convey, _I hear you_.

"I – my father –"

The dragon's roar was brief, but wordless. "Stand on your own two feet, young prince! Is this boy your friend?"

Merlin's heart beat once, remembering with what fury he'd flung himself into his attack on the older boy, before Arthur yelled back, "Yes!"

"You would do well to remember it," Kilgarrah said. "You are children yet, but not for long. This boy could be your most loyal ally, and a powerful defender of your throne and kingdom – he has already given you more than you know. But he will also prove a formidable enemy."

_Kilgarrah_! Merlin barked internally, struggling to move, to raise his eyelids, to make some sound.

"What am I to do?" Arthur sounded defiant and miserable at once. "You must know my father's stance on the druid peoples."

"He is not merely a druid."

"You _know_ my father's stance on dragonlords!"

"He is not merely a dragonlord! He is –"

Merlin managed to drag his mouth open and forced out, as loudly as he could, "He is _awake_!"

"Merlin!" In the red-gold glow of the cavern, he could make out the lighter reflected gleam of Arthur's hair as the older boy bent over him. Merlin put up one hand and Arthur clasped it unhesitatingly, raised him to sitting.

"What –" He coughed, and Arthur fumbled for the waterskin on its cord over his head and one shoulder. Merlin drank sparingly, and said, "What now? I made a deal with Vortigern to release you so that he could build his tower, that Arthur would be free to return to warn Camelot not to go to war with him."

Arthur stoppered the waterskin, moved back from Merlin to a standing position. "I cannot agree to letting Vortigern build on Dinas Emrys," he said. "I sought to delay the general's plans until Camelot's troops could arrive. I hoped to convince the dragon to leave these lands forever."

Merlin put his head down on his knees. Being friends did not make them allies, it seemed. "But Elder Ruadan – the other clans," he whispered unhappily. "I was meant to win peace and safety for them."

"There is yet time for deliberation," Kilgarrah said only. "Young warlock, do you feel yourself equal to the task of another long walk?"

Merlin sighed and nodded, rubbing his face against his knees. "If I must," he said.

"Come, then," the dragon said. Merlin lifted his head to see the creature crawl down from his perch on the outcropping of rock – the floor of the cavern was only thirty feet or so below them.

"Come where?" Arthur said obstinately, lifting his hands to his hips.

"You questioned the logic of the cave, the well, the tunnel, as an entrance for one of my size, did you not?" Kilgarrah let out a curious purring growl, and Merlin realized it was the sound of the dragon's laughter. Arthur pressed his lips tight – he had pointed out that difficulty – and Merlin ducked his head to hide his smile. "That journey was meant for the two of you to take," Kilgarrah said, "according to prophecy. My door lies elsewhere."


	9. Unlock the Future

**Chapter 9: Unlock the Future**

_The mountain high the giant deep_

_Guard on golden treasure keep…_

_Old and young beyond the wall_

_Unlock the future with one call._

…..*…..

Merlin pushed himself to his feet and followed Kilgarrah's movement toward the left side of the ledge, where he discovered a rough-hewn but definite set of steps down to the floor of the cave, visible only from the extreme edge. He put his hand on the rock wall for stability and began to descend.

"There's something I don't understand," he said, going slowly. His knees were more inclined to shakiness than he wanted the other two to notice. Behind him, he heard Arthur's footsteps follow.

"You have but to ask, young dragonlord," Kilgarrah said, pausing beside the rocky staircase. Merlin's head was level with his shoulder; he took the next step down.

"That's just it," Merlin said, finding he was able to voice the question that had bothered him since Arthur's involvement had been shown necessary. "Why was Arthur included in the prophecy? Why did you have to wait for him – for the becoming prince, and hope that someone who had inherited the dragonlords' blood had survived to set you free also? I think I can understand why, if you were the last of your kind, you would choose to hide –"

"Hiding?" Kilgarrah's claws scratched furrows in the stone floor of the cave, flaking bits up onto the step by Merlin's boots. "Is that what the druids teach their young these days?"

Merlin took the last step down to the floor of the cavern, and lowered himself to sit and catch his breath. "They teach the prophecy," he defended. "They teach that the last of the dragons surrendered his life…" He glanced up at Arthur, who stepped down beside him, barely winded.

Arthur shrugged. "I never heard of the prophecy or the legend until Vortigern planned his tower," he said. "Mostly the idea that a single dragon remained alive somehow, was discredited as illogical."

Kilgarrah snorted twin jets of fire briefly from his nostrils. "Single – discredited – illogical," he grumbled. "It is disgraceful that I should have to tell this story to the two of _you_."

"Can we journey as we talk?" Merlin said, pushing himself upright again. He couldn't shake the feeling of hurry, though his body protested. "I don't know how far gone the day is, but a man's life depends on me, and I don't want to waste time when –"

Kilgarrah lowered his head abruptly to blink one molten eye at him. "Many things may indeed depend on you, young warlock," he said, gently. "But never believe that another man's decision to kill or spare brings any fault to _you_. But come – we will journey at whatever pace you can manage."

Merlin nodded his thanks, and felt Arthur's hand give his shoulder an encouraging squeeze. They continued slowly, following Kilgarrah even as they walked at his side, his huge slow steps causing the uneven ground to tremble beneath their own boots. The path curved, and the red-gold glow reflected from the round mouth of yet another tunnel – this one sized for Kilgarrah, who ducked his head to enter.

"Half a century ago," the great dragon said, "the war between mankind and dragons was at its height. The bonded covenant of the dragonlord race, initially intended to bridge the gap between our species, was failing – through no fault of their own. Men – even those with other forms of magic, druids and healers – envied that which they did not understand, suspected that which they envied, and hated that which they suspected. It became the single most lauded accomplishment for a knight to boast of killing a dragon. And there were a few dragonlords who retaliated in kind. Some were then executed – and a dragon whose lord's life was cut short in such a manner often drowned reason in revenge." His pause was contemplative, but not penitent.

"Crops and homes were destroyed, innocents killed. There were too few dragonlords, too many men willing to betray and murder. Aurelian was one of the few who foresaw the end, and determined to defy that fate. It was here at Dinas Emrys that the enchantment was wrought, and the prophecy written. I did indeed sacrifice my life, entering into an agreement that would catch my spirit out of time –"

"Hibernation," Arthur muttered behind Merlin. He stepped around one of the larger rocks in the path.

"It is not an incorrect comparison," Kilgarrah agreed.

Merlin thought a curious question at the dragon, who answered in a wordless complexity that he just about grasped. He'd determined to ponder it later, and said aloud, "Midnight, then?"

"Noon was sufficient," Kilgarrah answered, "for the combination of power applied. The spell that caused my sleep, however, assured my waking at an appointed time in the future – not merely when the son or grandson of a dragonlord made his way into my lair. Freedom and escape could have been accomplished at that time – Aurelian and I could have retreated from this land altogether, were we willing to leave it vulnerable to invasion."

"What do you mean?" Merlin took advantage of the dragon's pause to drop down onto another boulder to rest. Arthur wordlessly passed him the waterskin, which was noticeably lighter than when they'd started out that morning – he took a single swallow.

"Dinas Emrys is my home now," Kilgarrah said simply. "I defend it and Albion, that is my destiny. I woke because men had begun to claim it as their own, and because the further conditions of the prophecy were being met." Kilgarrah lowered his head to gaze at them. "The last son of the dragonlords approaching manhood, one whose potential far surpasses anything yet seen among the peoples of magic. The son of the warlord poised to claim the throne – hair of sun and gaze of sky – the becoming prince. I woke – and I called."

The midnight earth-tremors. That had resulted in the suggestion of a sacrifice and Merlin's choice to go. That had resulted in the warlord's planned attack and Arthur's choice to go.

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

"Why –" Arthur took a deep breath and said evenly, "Why were you so upset that the becoming prince was a Pendragon?" He'd heard the stories; now he wanted to hear the _truth_.

The dragon bared teeth as long as Arthur's forearm. "Uther was yet an untried boy when we brought an end to the war," he said. "But his father was not so innocent. Red was the blood and thick, of dragons and their lords, on the hands of Constennin."

Slumped on the rock in front of Arthur, Merlin stiffened. Arthur cursed internally, knowing that the same question had occurred to the druid boy as had leaped, terrible, into his own mind. But Merlin said nothing, just rose from the boulder and began to walk again. The dragon paced forward, and Arthur followed, keeping an eye on the younger boy. He asked nothing, but more than once Arthur saw him shake his head as if conducting an inner monologue, refusing to ask, or answering himself in a negative. Arthur wondered if it would be better to voice the question to the dragon himself, or simply let the matter drop – and never know.

"Even in the waking dream, caught between times, I was connected to my lord," Kilgarrah said from high above them. Merlin's head dropped several inches, as though he were concentrating fully on his footing on the rocky ground of the larger tunnel. "To Aurelian, to his son Balinor, to his son. I see your question, Merlin."

Merlin shook his head again, violently. "I don't want to know," he said, and his voice sounded strained.

Arthur caught Merlin's sleeve, pulling him to a stop. "Wait a minute," he said. Kilgarrah paused, looking back and down at them; Merlin refused to meet Arthur's gaze. "Kilgarrah," Arthur said. "I – I think I do need to know. Did – did my grandfather kill Merlin's grandfather?" The druid boy's eyes slid shut, and he shuddered slightly, but did not protest.

"After the spell was spoken and Dinas Emrys sealed," Kilgarrah said, "Aurelian escaped. He was hunted, it is true, by Constennin. He thought he had finally and successfully evaded his pursuers. He settled, he began a new life, he married. Some time passed in happiness, but he was betrayed. Thinking to spare his wife, he took his young son Balinor and ran again. I do not know if Constennin wielded the weapon which claimed Aurelian's life."

"But he sure as hell was responsible for it," Arthur finished, and it was he this time who dropped down onto a low rock, burying his head in his hands.

All his life he'd been raised to see his father and grandfather as heroes, battling the evil powers of untamed magic and defending the innocent against the depredations of the occasional savage dragon. But even after the last dragon _retired_ – the word was bitter in his memory - the dragonlords, whose powers were rendered essentially void by Kilgarrah's sacrificed sleep, were not allowed a similar rest. He heard Gaius' voice, censorious by its very neutrality, _Your fathers and their fathers fought long and hard to exterminate the species as well as the race of men who were their kin_… He groaned aloud and pushed the heels of his hands against his eyes. He felt someone push at his left side, and squinted sideways in the gloom of the cavern to see Merlin sharing the rock with him.

"But why was a second man necessary for the prophecy to be fulfilled?" Merlin said to Kilgarrah, and Arthur almost stopped breathing.

With one question the druid boy had skipped all the remonstration and blame of two generations and confidently affirmed the fragile friendship of the third. He did not know what to make of Merlin – he knew of no one else with the capacity for forgiveness that the boy had showed. Knights, by contrast, were pretty nearly required by their peculiar code of honor to hold grudges until they could be fought to a resolution won by one and forced upon the other.

"The prophecy of the soul of magic and the becoming prince is a precursor to other prophecies," Kilgarrah said, in a suggestive tone.

"I don't want to know," Merlin said firmly, and this time Arthur agreed.

"You will, in time, need to know," Kilgarrah said gently. "But for now, yes, you've quite enough to go on. Suffice to say, the relationship the two of you will forge will become – legendary. You've much to accomplish, establishing Camelot, balancing the magic both present and returning, building alliances toward a golden age of peace for all of Albion."

Arthur felt a warm swelling of hope – if there existed such prophecies, then it was possible. As scared and unready as he felt, it was heartening to hear that someday he might be the sort of king who – beside him, Merlin groaned and huddled into his knees.

"I thought," he muttered hoarsely, "when this was over, it would just be – over."

Arthur understood. Years of training and understanding the requirements placed on him did not inevitably instill self-confidence. And for Merlin… He nudged the younger boy so hard he almost lost his balance and shot Arthur an irate look.

"He just said we'd do it together," Arthur reminded him with a half-grin. "I'll be there for you… idiot."

Merlin nudged him back. "Why does that not reassure me?" he said in a tone that completely belied the words.

Arthur looked up at the great dragon. "You said you defend Dinas Emrys as your home," he said. "And it was my chosen task to prevent the tower being built. My father's army will be here soon; what will you do?"

A thoughtful grumble echoed in the dragon's massive chest. "I guard myself and my young kin, first and foremost. I guard my home; I will not allow the general to build here. I will not fight for Uther Pendragon, nor will I oppose the becoming prince." Merlin said nothing; Arthur assumed he agreed with Kilgarrah's decisions.

Arthur inclined his head in acquiescence. It was the most he could hope for, he supposed. The dragon would not make himself an active enemy of Uther and Camelot; somehow he'd have to persuade his father to leave the dragon in peace, even claiming the hill that overlooked the valley and the trade route. For now, it would have to be enough that the tower would not be built.

"Are we close to your door, then?" he asked.

Kilgarrah dipped his head in an affirmative response, and moved ahead of them down the tunnel.

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

As he took up position at the rear of their little procession – well, maybe not so little, considering the great dragon led it – Merlin sensed something new.

It was not the dormant magic of the prophecy, urging him to continue, to finish, nor yet the humming of the enchantments they'd triggered along the way. It wasn't the satisfying harmony of the grove, nor the specific presence of the ancient magic of the dragon, but something – he stopped and stared at the wall to his right.

There was a shimmer there, a ripple of light that wasn't the red-gold reflective of Kilgarrah's scales. Mindful of his promise of no unpermitted magic to Arthur, he instead closed his eyes and opened himself to receive the pulsing magic, in order to better identify it.

Against the back of his eyelids, he saw another cave, of the same size as the bell-cave. And on the floor of it, curled in the center – almost taking up the whole space, big as a wagon, white as snow, wings tucked carefully back while he slumbered – _a young dragon_.

Merlin had the sudden sensation that he was falling, though he could feel the floor of the tunnel beneath the soles of his boots. "Old and young," he said dumbly. "Ye gods – there are _two_."

"Merlin?" Arthur's voice, concerned and approaching.

He could hardly bear to turn away, sure that the vision would somehow vanish, though he wasn't using his physical eyes. "Kilgarrah," Merlin said. He tried to make his voice stern, but it betrayed him by breaking. "Were you not going to tell me about _him_?" He opened his eyes to let both tears spill down his face, and pointed at the solid rock wall.

"You astonish me, young warlock," Kilgarrah said. "Aurelian himself laid that enchantment – you are truly and strongly a son of your fathers if you see through it without hint."

"What is it?" Arthur said, stepping to the side of the tunnel to sweep one hand over the wall.

Merlin said, "Prophecy. Another dragon sleeps, Arthur. A young one, and _white_. The white dragon bodes well for Albion…"

Kilgarrah turned so that he rested sideways in the tunnel – a tight fit, but at least he wasn't facing away or craning to look over his shoulder. "He is the youngest, the latest hatched. Your grandfather spoke his name less than a year before we both agreed to the enchantment. My destiny is the defense of Albion, to guard from Dinas Emrys. Aithusa's destiny will be to one day go to war against the invaders."

"The invaders?" Arthur said, backing up with his eyes still on the wall.

"The Saxons will accumulate along the northern shores," Kilgarrah said. "Their greed will provoke them south eventually."

Merlin opened his mouth to repeat the name of the young dragon, to test its sound from his mouth to his ears, but Kilgarrah knocked him over with a violently abrupt puff of sulfury breath. "Speak it not until you are ready for his awakening, dragonlord," the creature said sternly. "It will be your duty and his, to learn each other, to train each other, to protect each other, but you must fulfill this duty first. Finish the task before you, Merlin, and you may return to unlock the future." Merlin nodded, and Kilgarrah righted himself in the tunnel.

Arthur bent to pull him to his feet, and said in a low voice, "There's really another dragon in there?"

Merlin nodded, and glanced at the older boy's face to find his blue eyes narrowed in calculation. It was a surprisingly mature, _king-like_ look. "What are you thinking?" Merlin spoke in a near-whisper.

Arthur glanced at him with an ironic half-smile. "Now my father will _have_ to change his mind," he told Merlin.

Merlin was honestly not looking forward to meeting Uther Pendragon, at all. "What will he do when you tell him?" Arthur grunted; Merlin thought they both knew the answer to that question. He was not worried about the dragons' ability to defend themselves, or to remain hidden, if it came to that, but about the likelihood of that necessity.

The older boy said thoughtfully, "_When_ I tell him."

A growling echo shuddered through the tunnel – Kilgarrah had stopped again almost fifty feet further. Beyond him, another wall reflected the red-gold glow. Arthur tossed Merlin another sideways grin as they both jogged to catch up, approaching to Kilgarrah's left as he looked over his shoulder.

"One last thing, younglings," the dragon said. "And I only mention it because neither of you has voiced the query. Tell me again, the fourth line of the prophecy."

Merlin said, "Guard on golden treasure… keep." Arthur drew in a startled breath, and Merlin added confusedly, "I – _what_?"

"It does you credit, the both of you, that you came here out of duty, out of friendship. Your desire was for freedom, for peace, the honor of obedience and loyalty. But the treasure so mentioned – is an actual treasure. During the war, when the dragonlords and their families were forced to abandon their homes for a lifestyle more suited to constant evasion, they gathered here the worth of their worldly good, coin and gem and trinket, against the day when it could be used for the good of surviving descendents."

"But I don't want a treasure," Merlin gasped. In the druid camp, they shared, traded and bartered for what they needed. Coin in your pouch meant you worried about thieves. And as for spending it wisely, or for his own good, Merlin repeated aghast, "I don't want it!"

Kilgarrah huffed a smoky chuckle. "Then it is indeed in good hands. It is yours also, becoming prince. I trust it will never be a point of contention between you?"

"He can have it," Merlin blurted. "He can use it to – build defenses, or feed the poor, or –"

"Hells, Merlin," Arthur said breathlessly. He looked as stunned as if Merlin had managed to land a punch.

"Now, lord's true key," Kilgarrah said, shuffling to allow Merlin access to the wall. "My home is locked from the inside, to keep old and young slumbering in safety. If you would be so kind as to lend your magic to mine in the opening of the door?"

Merlin stepped between the dragon's huge forepaws. There in the center, rising from the floor, about five feet high and two or three wide, a duplication of the swirling black druid-symbol. Except in the center, at heart-height, where there was a circle of unmarked stone. He listened for a moment to the great dragon's silently-imparted instructions, then nodded.

"I understand," he said, dropping to his knees. Kilgarrah lifted one claw, and Merlin carefully wiped it clean with a corner of his cloak, then positioned his wrist precisely beneath the point.

"Merlin, what are you –" Arthur began, then yelped as Merlin lifted his arm onto the point of Kilgarrah's claw.

"Don't worry, Arthur," he said, standing once again. "Remember what I said about blood magic – freely given, and measured in drops."

The older boy had paled, and his expression made it clear he was not happy with this necessity. He gestured abruptly. "Get it over with, then."

Blood welled from his wrist, from a clear pale curve of skin in the center of one of the tattooed designs – his first, actually, to show that his magic was proved. Merlin placed his right hand against the small puncture, and rubbed it until the circle of his palm and the length of each finger was wet and sticky. His wrist, though smeared to look much worse than the small cut actually was, had almost stopped bleeding on its own by then.

He reached to take the pendant out from his shirt, lifting it over his head clumsily with his left hand. Trailing the cord between his first and second fingers on his right, he positioned the silver dragon in the center of his palm, and placed his hand, fingers outstretched, in the center of the unmarked circle of stone.

"Stand back, Arthur," he advised the older boy.

Merlin took a deep breath at the same time as Kilgarrah did, and as the fiery breath enveloped him once again, lighting the dark weave of the painted symbol to a red-gold glow, he spoke, "_Un clyse_." Such a simple spell, really, but the earth itself groaned beneath them, and shuddered.

The wall in front of him began to sway, as the fiery points of the radiant symbol skittered away toward the walls and ceiling like cracks. A great boom like thunder echoed down the tunnel behind them, and where the dragon's breath was concentrated, where Merlin's palm rested, the stone was flung violently outward, great chunks tumbling away from the foot of the mount by the force of the combined magic. Trees ducked under the blast, bending away from the new opening of the cave, the smaller ones uprooting themselves to fall flat.

Breezes eddied patterns in the dust, bringing fresh green smells into the long-closed cave. Kilgarrah inhaled, and Merlin shivered in the absence of the warming fire. Jagged masses of rock and earth still dropped in the opening, smaller stones pattering and bouncing all around. He was thankful for Arthur's hand on his arm, drawing him to the side, pressing him down to sit in safety.

He looked up at Kilgarrah, still filling the great bellows of his lungs, over and over. In the daylight, the shine of his scales had faded to a muted iridescence, red-gold shimmering over the massive muscles. The brown-red wings lifted and spread until the tips of the bone-lined sails touched the walls of the tunnel, trembling eagerly like new leaves in a spring breeze.

Merlin thought of how it would feel to have the wind in his face after forty years of sleeping, how it would feel to stretch his legs and _run_ after such a confinement. He found his breath was coming hard in a reflection of his kin's anticipation.

"After nearly half a century spent between times," Kilgarrah said, "sustained by magic alone, I find I am ravenous. I will see you soon, young warlock, and be assured that I must answer your summons from anywhere on earth. Only –" he lowered his great head and there was a fiery glint in the golden eye – "for both our sakes, use your power to call your kin only in time of greatest urgency."

"Of course." Merlin put his hand over his heart and bowed from his sitting position. "It was my honor and my privilege to be of service to you, ancient one."

"Farewell, my lord," Kilgarrah responded. "Two sides of one coin. I wish you joy in your destiny, Merlin, I do indeed. Prince Arthur, be true to your heart. Courage and magic will see you through."

"I shall do my best," Arthur said, and it was a vow. He inclined his head also.

Merlin almost tumbled over backward in the great buffet of air from the first downswing of the dragon's wings. Whump – whump – the wind beat at his eardrums and ruffled Arthur's hair as the older boy stepped into the gap to watch Kilgarrah rise over the trees still standing and gain altitude.

"It's an hour til sunset," Arthur said when they could hear each other again. In the distance, Kilgarrah tilted his wings and soared behind the range of hills to the northeast, out of sight. There was an edge of humor in his voice. "Maybe we should have gotten Kilgarrah to fly us up the hill to Vortigern's tower – then he could have stopped whatever the general had planned for your elder, and told him that he's not allowed to build here, both."  
Merlin smiled, imagining what the great dragon's expression and response would be to such a proposition. "He's not a horse, Arthur," he said softly. Learning that the creature had known his father and grandfather, there was a pressure there to measure up, not just to become a dragonlord in the fullest of meanings, but to be a _good_ one.

"Are you up to the climb?" Arthur leaned out of the cave opening to squint back up the mount.

"In a minute." Every single muscle and joint groaned at the idea of more physical exertion.

Arthur turned to look down on Merlin. "You heard the dragon in your head, right?" he said. "Can you talk to your elder the same way? Tell him what happened? If I was Vortigern, I'd have a watch set; they might have seen the dragon leave. Then we won't have to climb up at all, will we?"

"If they didn't see Kilgarrah," Merlin took another of the breaths he seemed to be short of, for the moment, "Vortigern won't take Ruadan's word for it." He wondered if his body was capable of ascending the hill, despite any mental motivation or determination.

Arthur made a thoughtful sound. "Perhaps you should advise him to magic his way out."

Merlin closed his eyes and took three deep, even breaths, sinking deeper into his magic with each one. _Ruadan_, he projected firmly, then realized belatedly that he ought to have prefaced the older man's name with his title. Oh well, too late now. _The dragon is free and has left Dinas Emrys._ All the rest – Kilgarrah's insistence that Vortigern's tower would not be allowed to rise at the summit of _his_ hill and the subsequence disappointing of the clans' hopes for the general's protection - would have to be dealt with later.

_The creature has been seen_. Ruadan's reply was faint, and expressionless, in his mind. _We are both free to go_.  
Merlin didn't ask, what about the scout of Camelot. He didn't ask, what shall I do now. Opening his eyes, he said aloud to Arthur, "He's free to go. We don't have to climb."

Arthur's face relaxed also, though he pulled his smile back self-consciously at the last moment. "What will you do?" he said, coming to seat himself near Merlin. "Go back to your clan?" He reached for Merlin's left hand, turned his wrist upward to examine it.

Merlin shrugged. "My mother is there," he said. But somehow, the camp and the clan seemed so _small_. "But I have responsibilities here, too, with Kilgarrah and with – with the dragons. What about you?"

"My father and the army of Camelot will be here any day," the older boy said, looking out the mouth of the opened cave through the trees of the valley to the north. "There will be a battle with Vortigern, I have no doubt. The tower is not built, that is true, but the general does have catapults, and the advantage of high ground, if he can get his men up the hill in time." He pulled the stopper from the water-skin with his teeth and dripped water over both of Merlin's hands, scrubbing most of the blood off, and cleaning the dragon charm between thumb and forefinger.

"Why does it have to be so?" Merlin said, in a bit of exasperation. "I don't understand why – men must always fight."

Arthur bent from his seat to draw lines in the dust of the tunnel floor. "Here is my father's fort at Camelot," he said. "The people of the east are raiders under a man named Caerleon, but they keep to themselves, as do the Southrons. Here in the southwest is the little kingdom of Nemeth, we have a treaty with them and Father respects King Rodor. But to the west and the northwest lie the lands of Odin and Olaf – both quarrelsome and greedy. They leave each other alone – very little of what either holds is enviable, I guess – but both will turn on our lands with little provocation. My father has to secure the borders and hold the land to crown himself king, and aims to bring peace –" he swirled his forefinger in the central area he'd drawn – "to all of Camelot. If Vortigern controls this valley, he can raid into our lands and attack our trade routes at will, and there will be little we can do to stop him. There will be fighting for twelve _more_ years."

Merlin studied the dust-map, then lifted his eyes to Arthur's without moving his head. "But a King Uther would not be good for the clans," he said. "We all know how he feels about magic."

Arthur gave Merlin a rueful grin, and opened the cord of the necklace to slide down Merlin's hair to its former place around his neck. "When the smoke clears and the dust settles, I guess then will be the time to discuss the return of the dragons and their lord, and any agreement with the druid clans."

Merlin shivered, knowing that the older boy would find a way to join the fight, and meant that whoever was alive at the end would deal with him and Kilgarrah and the clans. But the great dragon had hinted at some destiny that they were to pursue together… He couldn't see himself starting the journey back to the druid camp, or even making himself comfortable here in the cave to wait for Kilgarrah, while the older boy set off to battle. He pinched the pendant and made his decision.

"I'll go with you," he said.


	10. Guarding

_**Chapter 10: Guarding**_

_The mountain high, the giant deep_

_Guard on golden treasure keep._

…..*…..

"_I'll go with you," he said._

"Don't be ridiculous, Merlin," Arthur said dismissively. "Right now you could hardly take a step without falling over. You've got a responsibility to Aithusa while we're fighting –"

"He's safe," Merlin argued. "No one but me can find him."

"What about the treasure, then," Arthur said. "Battle is chaos, and afterwards isn't much better. You'll have bands of escaping defeated warriors roaming these woods for weeks before the victor takes full control – a cave full of not-so-hidden treasure is going to complicate things quite a bit. With Kilgarrah gone, who's going to guard that from renegade soldiers?"

"It's still hidden," Merlin said. "It's right there." He could see the small break in the tunnel wall, maybe twenty feet back from the mouth to the outside world, shimmery around the edges with concealing magic.

Arthur stood, demanding, "Where?"

Merlin picked up a stone and threw it – his aim was good, and it bounced and clattered through the opening. It would appear to Arthur as though it had simply sailed through solid rock.

"That's just a visual illusion, right?" Arthur said, rising and approaching the great crack that formed the doorway to whatever treasure rested in whatever cavern beyond. "I mean, it looks like rock, but anything or anyone could pass through?" He clambered over some of the rubble of the collapsed wall and began to feel for the edges of the natural door, seven or eight feet high but only three or so wide at the base of the crack. "That doesn't seem especially secure to me, considering the sort of cowards who'll be running and hiding after they've lost."

Merlin grinned at the older boy's back without arguing. It seemed to him that Arthur's statement betrayed his assumption of who the victory of the upcoming battle would belong to.

Arthur put his hands on his hips and studied the whole wall in dissatisfaction. Then he threw a grin over his shoulder at Merlin, and stepped forward, shielding his head with his arms as he passed the magical barrier.

"Arthur!" Merlin called out, watching him disappear into the narrow crack. There was no response. "Why don't you leave the treasure alone for now? We should make camp, find food… Arthur?" There was no sound but the rumbling pinch of his stomach at the thought of food.

"Well, what have we here?"

Merlin flinched so badly he lost his balance and had to throw out his arms to keep from falling off his rocky seat. From the west side of the cave opening, a man stepped into view. The relief that recognition brought was minimal, and passing – it was the red-haired guard Vortigern had sent with them.

Merlin spoke without thinking. "I thought the two of you were supposed to be at the top of the hill by sunset."

"We delayed a bit," the guard responded, giving attention to the rubble of the fallen wall, the great tunnel stretching back into the mount, dark now without Kilgarrah's radiance. "Decided to investigate the disturbance over this way, you might say."

Merlin stood to place more distance between them instinctively. Picking his way casually across the tunnel, at a slant, he headed further back where his cloak might blend better with the shapeless shadows, but not giving away the hidden door to the cave where Arthur had gone by heading directly for it.

"Saw that dragon flew away," the red-haired guard added, still looking around the interior of the tunnel rather than at Merlin. Behind him, a boot scraped against rock, and the second guard, tall and lean with straw-like hair, stepped into view. The redhead swung around. "What do you say, Benley? Treasure's good a reason as any to enter a cave, don't you think?"

Merlin's heart sank. They must have overheard, or remembered the prophecy, or just guessed correctly.

Benley said to Merlin, "Where's the scout?"

Merlin made his shrug as nonchalant as possible, moving forward now along the wall toward the cleft that led to the other chamber. He could make a break to the forest, maybe, draw them away to chase him. He didn't figure they'd venture down the tunnel if he ran back into the mountain, but maybe if he waited til they were both looking away, he could disappear into the illusion of solid stone and they would have to leave…

"Arthur, he called him," the redhead corrected his companion. "Now, who do you know of among Uther's men with that name?" Merlin tripped and almost fell.

"Surely not," Benley said. "Even the Pendragon would not send his son scouting on his own." His eyes were on Merlin. "Would he?"

"Hm," the redhead said. His hand was on the hilt of his sword; having found nothing to interest him in his surroundings, he was now focused on Merlin. "Shall we bring the general a pocketful of gold, or the most valuable hostage he could hope to hold?"

Benley spat between the gap in his teeth. "Maybe we bring the hostage to him and keep the gold in our pockets," he suggested, and the red-haired soldier's answering grin was wide.

"I won't let you take either," Merlin said. He was situated now nearly in front of the passageway to the other chamber. Should he call for Arthur, to warn him? Should he run – but what if only one followed? The older boy could saunter out at any minute, not knowing their unwelcome company.

The redhead growled and began to stride forward, yanking his weapon some inches from its sheath before Benley stopped him with a hand on his arm. "He's a druid," Benley said in explanation, jutting his chin toward Merlin. "Druids have magic."

Merlin bit his tongue and cursed the unthinking promise he'd made to Arthur. What now?

"He's just a kid," the redhead protested.

Behind and beside him, Arthur's voice sounded, cheerful and relaxed. "Hey, Merlin, have a look at –"

Both men glanced to Merlin's right. He didn't turn, but saw their eyes widen in surprise and greed at the sight of whatever Arthur had brought to show him. Arthur hissed a curse, understanding the scene in an instant. In an undertone, and presumably only to Merlin, Arthur muttered, "I'll be right back."

"Hidden doorway, huh?" Benley said, glancing at the other, who moved forward once again. "Stand back, boy, no reason for you to be involved."

Merlin's only reply was to bend swiftly for a rock in each hand – he had to keep his word to Arthur. A man was only as good as his word… His palms were damp; he squeezed the stones, then threw both in quick succession at the approaching soldier, as hard as he could. The red-haired guard ducked the first, but the second struck his shoulder and he exclaimed in pain.

"Is that the way little boys play," Benley said softly. He yanked his sling from his belt and cast about him for his own stone.

The other drew his sword, and caught Merlin's third thrown rock on his wrist-guard. His glare was venomous; his advance cautious, as he circled toward Merlin's left, making him divide his attention between two targets that were further apart.

Benley whirled and loosed the sling and Merlin dropped to one knee to duck the flying stone – whistling viciously much faster and with aim more deadly than Merlin was able to accomplish. He threw a fourth anyway, and missed the redhead by inches.

Pain exploded over his right eye, sending him flailing back. In a blind panic he scrabbled for another stone and launched it in Benley's direction before his could straighten his blurred vision, then twisted to throw another toward the red-haired guardsman. Sharp agony spiked a second time through his head, through his body, and he dropped sideways through a shrieking cacophony of dissonant bells in his ear. He felt his hand shaking as he reached to protect the injury.

His lips and tongue felt thick and uncooperative and disappointed as he spoke the words of the spell that would wrap the sling uselessly around the man's hand, "_Ic_ _the gehatte, searubunden_." Being unable to focus on anything more specific, he had to hope that his minor contribution was enough for the older boy to take advantage of. Arthur's life was more important than a broken promise, after all.

He curled his knees up to his chest and wished only to die – or at least achieve blessed unconsciousness – to relieve the torturous misery ripping his skull apart.

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

It was Arthur's fault. He'd lost himself in the time of their triumph - the dragon freed, Merlin's life spared, the enemy fortress denied. He'd wanted to delay for a while longer any thought of his father's reaction, not only to the unauthorized venture, but to the realization of the truth of Dinas Emrys' legend.

He completely overlooked the responsibility of keeping watch or guard over their position, while still within enemy territory.

The idea of treasure was a perfect distraction. What boy hadn't pretended – hoped? – to someday find a hidden, forgotten trove? Curiosities, riches, wonders. They were no longer required to make a laborious uphill climb in the darkening twilight, there was plenty of time to arrange themselves for the night before they parted ways in the morning, and Merlin surely needed the rest.

It wasn't exactly what he'd imagined. No scattered mounds of tarnished coin, no coffers spilling uncut gems, no ropes of pearls or set pieces of jewelry for male or female wearers. Instead, the wealth of the dragonlords was neatly packed and organized, trunks and drawers closed, a rack of weapons – he recognized it by size and shape – covered against the dust.

He started at his left, moving methodically, checking drawers and lids – all locked. The chamber was silent but for his breathing and footsteps and movements. Atop one chest was a strange knobby cloth-covered object. He drew off the dusty material and gaped.

It was a tree, about a foot tall, delicately wrought in silver, branches bare of leaves as if for winter. Dangling from the many and lifelike branches, chiming faintly in the stillness from his hands' movement, an entire collection of pendants like the one Merlin wore. Arthur touched one reverently, sadly. Each one must symbolize a lord who'd died without passing on his bloodline. There would have been children that died also – and none so solemnly or willingly or _cleanly_ as Merlin had prepared to do, he was sure of that.

"I'm sorry," he whispered, to the pieces, to the room. His grandfather, maybe, had taken some of these lives himself; he should feel a stranger in this room, an unwanted and unwelcome interloper to whatever might linger of these families. But it wasn't so.

He felt the sorrow – but also the peace. The hope, even. The room was open because the dragonlords had an heir – because Arthur himself was the becoming prince. There was expectation, but it wasn't the heavy foreboding of a warned _or-else_ that he felt as his father's son. It was light, it was encouragement and support and confidence.

"Camelot will be as great as I can make it," he said aloud. "And Albion. For as long as I am alive to make it so."

Arthur gently replaced the cloth over the tiny hanging-tree and continued his brief study of the room's contents. He'd almost made his way around to the entrance once again, when he found something else, again under a dust-cloth – a simple circlet of gold set with four small diamonds equidistant from each other. Curious, he lifted it and tried it on his own head, where it settled over his hair and down to his temples as though made for him.

He should see, he thought amusedly, what Merlin looked like wearing the thing. Less like a druid and more like a dragonlord, he guessed.

Grin already threatening, he hurried the few steps down the short passageway, already saying, "Hey, Merlin, have a look at –"

Arthur stopped abruptly, frozen in place. Merlin was not alone. Close enough to the hidden cleft for Arthur to touch, the younger boy faced Vortigern's two guards, down toward the other side of the tunnel, a couple of yards apart. The tension in the boy's stance combined with the menacing greed on the faces of the other two to tell Arthur instantly everything he need to know. He cursed aloud.

They'd seen the illusion of the stone-hidden doorway, and the circlet on Arthur's head. For them to have come to the cave at all meant they knew the dragon was gone. Vortigern's soldiers were armed, and they were not – the other two wanted treasure and weren't going to worry much if they had to kill Merlin and Arthur to get it. Druids, he knew, were a peace-loving people, Merlin as inept in a fight as an untrained child. Arthur made his decision in the space of a breath.

"I'll be right back," he promised Merlin, whirling to retreat back down the passage to the chamber. Perhaps he should have pulled the younger boy along with him, but he didn't want to have to fight the two soldiers in the treasure chamber like a bunch of avaricious brutes. He sprinted from the entrance across to the weapon rack, yanking off the covering cloth with a metallic clatter, dropping the circlet on the nearest surface.

Then he forced himself to take his time; their lives depended on his choice, and these were unfamiliar pieces. Two, he could see, were meant merely for show and not for use, dull and weak-bladed though gorgeous. A third he tested and found the binding of hilt to blade unsteady. A fourth had managed to gather some spots of rust, which made the whole weapon untrustworthy. That left two - he drew one in each hand, to heft for the feel of the balance, to gaze down the edge for relative sharpness. They were quite close in quality, but within moments Arthur had made his choice. He slammed the rejected sword back into the rack, rattling the whole thing, and stepped back to swing his selected weapon in an experimental circle at his side.

Then he turned and ran for the larger tunnel again.

Things were very nearly unchanged. The redhead was four yards away, creeping cautiously forward from the left, sword raised, while Benley was in the same position, struggling with his sling. Merlin, however, was down in a huddle of brown cloak. The time for talk was over; these two would not back down from any warning Arthur might give.

Arthur leaped up onto a rock behind Merlin's knees, stepped sure-footed as a goat down and across the younger boy to another just beyond. He lifted his new-old sword as he jumped, and didn't hesitate to bring it crashing down toward the redhead in an obvious attack. The soldier raised his weapon to counter the blow, and rallied from the surprise of Arthur's assault with the speed of a veteran, throwing Arthur back enough to slash at him twice.

Arthur's heart was thundering, his palms slick on the hilt of the unfamiliar blade. His breath choked in his throat in fear – his experience and training had been in knightly tournaments, jousting and sparring, where the greatest danger had been that of accidents. He had never fought for his life before, what if he froze, what if he forgot –

The sword leaped, almost of its own accord, to block the soldier's strikes. Instinctively Arthur pressed the advantage of higher ground, driving toward the other's right to spin him slightly – keeping Benley in view and using his opponent to shield him from any weapons the other guard might hurl. He evaluated the skill level and speed of his enemy unconsciously, and was surprised when the flurry of traded blows seemed to slow, minimally, but enough to allow him a moment to react, to plan the next move.

The redhead's blade screeched down Arthur's and caught on the hilt. He shoved forward, using the catch, the contact to sling the other sword around – a momentary gap opened and he drove his weapon unhesitatingly between his opponent's ribs.

The soldier gasped, weakened so swiftly his blade clattered to the floor of the tunnel and the dropping of his body served to free Arthur's blade.

Time sped up – one down, one remaining – Benley would not have simply stood and watched, or continued to struggle with his wayward sling. Without deliberate decision or visual confirmation of the position and stance of the other soldier, Arthur found himself ducking to almost half his height - the gust of breeze the passing enemy sword made as it cleared his head puffed his hair - and spinning around to his left to increase the power behind his stroke.

The lanky guard's body arched as the dragonlords' blade bit deep in his side, continuing to slice as Arthur completed his turn and pulled back in readiness. Benley's head came down, the sword came down – and Arthur skipped close to catch the other's hilt in his own left hand, impeding the falling stroke for one second. Time enough to thrust his blade through the center of his enemy's body.

Benley's open mouth and eyes rounded in shock, and again Arthur's training took over. A stabbing blow wasn't fully carried out until the blade was twisted, making recovery impossible and ensuring the opponent's inability to counter-attack. He jerked the hilt sideways, Benley's body responding in kind.

Arthur kept hold of the blade as the second soldier fell, but his hand was trembling, and he stumbled back. Ye gods, he had killed. He'd killed someone, a man, two men. He was a killer… no. He was a fighter, a warrior. And victorious, and honorable – he had not started the fight, had defended himself and an unarmed friend. He had… Arthur bent over and retched, bringing up the little water that was left in his stomach, along with the bitter burn of yellow bile.

He leaned on the sword, blood trailing slowly downward toward the point, and ventured a glance – _Never turn your back on a wounded enemy_. Benley was dead, he was positive – eyes still open, the look of shock frozen on his face. Arthur backed toward Merlin – the redhead was motionless, also. He could not bear the thought of feeling for a pulse; if they stayed unmoving, it was good enough for him.

"Merlin?" he croaked. There was no answer. But there had been movement of the cloak earlier, he was sure of it. The redhead had not reached Merlin, neither of the soldier's swords had been stained with the blood of the druid boy.

Arthur watched the bodies a moment longer, to increase assurance of their lifelessness, before daring to glance back and down in the rubble from the collapsed cave-door for Merlin. For a moment he thought that the threat had been too much for the peace-accustomed druid boy, that he'd huddled in fear, overwhelmed, on the ground.

He stepped closer, saying, "It's all right, Merlin, it's fine. We're safe now, I –"

The younger boy was curled in a ball, yet, shielding the side of his face and head with his right hand. Arthur frowned; hadn't they already _washed_ the blood from the spell away? Arthur put his boot carefully beside Merlin's drawn-up knees, and began to kneel, when he glimpsed a red that was wet and fresh, beneath the white of the younger boy's shaking hand.

Swords had not been the only weapon used against them, he realized, remembering the knot under the hair at the back of his own head, after he'd been captured by Vortigern's men at the stream. His breath came faster, and he made an attempt to control himself. No use panicking until he _knew_.

"Merlin?" he said, placing his hand gently on the boy's arm. His whole body was taut with the suppression of unvoiced screams. "You're safe. I'm here. Can you hear me? Let me see."

Inch by trembling inch, Merlin allowed Arthur to move his hand, and he stared aghast at the gory mess of his friend's head, silent tears crossing and joining drying trickles of blood. Arthur reminded himself, _head wounds always bleed like hell, even if they're slight_. It didn't stop his shudder of fear for whatever damage had been done to the younger boy. Men had been killed by a well-aimed stone flung from a sling like Benley's.

"I know it hurts," Arthur said gently. "We'll get it taken care of. Merlin?" There was no response; he wondered if the boy could even hear him.

By his estimation, the opening of the dragon's cave was less than a hundred yards from where they'd descended the hill yesterday – only yesterday? The light was poor and failing fast, inside, their waterskin all but empty. If they could get to the stream, they could wash off the blood and he could objectively evaluate – he shuddered again. What was he to do if – no, first things first.

He reached down to the floor of the cave, slipping his fingers under the boy's face, to support his head, wincing at the slickness of blood that had dripped and pooled there. With his other hand curled around Merlin's upper arm, he braced his feet and lifted the boy, at least to sitting.

Merlin kept his eyes shut, tears still forcing their way occasionally from under the lids. He made no noise, but Arthur could tell that he was holding each breath as long as he could, before gasping for another silently.

"Good, that's good," Arthur said encouragingly. He stood to shove the sword through his belt, determined to go nowhere unarmed ever again, then bent to raise Merlin by his arms, hoping the only injuries were the visible ones.

As they made their way out into the forest, Arthur kept one hand firmly gripped on Merlin's arm, watching the footing for both of them. The druid boy blinked, attempting to cooperate, but displayed a dizzy inattention that worried Arthur, even though the boy had still not made a single sound.

He pitched his voice low so as not to carry through the trees, but spoke constantly, encouraging and consoling and reassuring as they weaved a slow way to the stream. Keeping either of them from tripping was first priority, of course, but the glances he sent around them indicated that they were alone again. Reaching the stream, Arthur positioned Merlin on a fallen log. He washed the borrowed sword in the trickle of water, then used it to hack several pieces off the bottom of the boy's cloak.

Merlin watched him with a hazy indifference, out of one eye, as the right seemed swollen shut – or gouged out, it was hard to tell under the blood. Arthur took hold of the cuffs of the bloodied borrowed shirt, and the younger boy obediently pulled his arms out. Arthur untied the neck, and Merlin's hand crept through the opening to shield the right side of his head as Arthur pulled it off as carefully as possible, wincing in sympathy, himself.

"Now," he said, as cheerfully as he could manage, "let's see what we've got."

Arthur knelt before the log and soaked one of the pieces of cloth in the stream beside them. Starting on Merlin's left, he wiped blood away quickly and gently, encountering no bruising or breaks in the skin, but concerned at the utter paleness of his friend, and the silence. Merlin kept his one good eye on Arthur's face, swaying slightly, but as Arthur moved the cleansing cloth across the bridge of his nose and down the other cheek, his gaze dropped to the sword on the ground beside Arthur's knee.

" 'R they dead?" he mumbled.

Arthur was so relieved that the younger boy was able both to think clearly and communicate adequately – head injuries were uncertain like that also – he didn't immediately answer. Rinsing the cloth in the stream, he squeezed it out, then began another stroke at Merlin's temple. There seemed to be one gash located by his right eye, and blood still oozed in the vicinity of his ear.

"Yes, they're dead," he said evenly. He didn't know what else to say – _sorry it took me so long to return?_ It was his job as the trained warrior to protect Merlin, and he'd failed.

" 'M sorry."

Arthur dabbed around Merlin's eye, wiping more blood away from uninjured skin, relieved to see that it was shut due to swelling – the abrasion relatively small, just below the eyebrow. He balanced the cloth on his knee to press gently on the edges of the eye socket beside the cut, satisfied that the bone was intact, and hoping it had done its job protecting the boy's eye.

"Why are you sorry?" he said. "You didn't do anything wrong." Pleased that the younger boy's face was cleaned and the revealed injury not much more serious than he'd get in a fistfight – Arthur cringed a little at the thought – he sat back on his heels and grinned up at Merlin. "Except not duck fast enough," he teased.

Sluicing the cloth out again, he turned and tipped Merlin's head to focus on the second injury, and Merlin shivered, pulling his arms in against his chest and leaning forward over his knees. Blood matted the black hair at the boy's neck, and another trickle had seeped down below his jaw, soaking the cord of his charm. Drips had fallen from the earlobe, dotting the pale skin of Merlin's shoulder. Arthur hesitated, knowing the severity of the injury depended on whether the wound was internal or external.

Merlin said, "Broke a promise."

Arthur took little notice; conversation was of minimal importance. This time he started at the lowest point of smeared red, clearing the skin enough to see that his neck was fine. Then he draped one of the dry pieces over Merlin's shoulder and dipped the washing cloth into the water. Without wringing it, he dripped the water over and down and inside Merlin's ear, catching the excess on the dry cloth.

Arthur wouldn't have thought it possible, but Merlin lost a shade of color. He whimpered though he was biting his lips shut; thinking to distract him, Arthur murmured, "What do you mean, you broke a promise?"

Red-tinged water ran down Merlin's neck, and he shivered in the cool dusk. Tears glinted on his face again. "Had to do magic," he gasped.

The water pooling inside Merlin's ear dissolved the blood, lifted it away. Arthur sighed. As far as he could tell, the injury was located on the outer edge of the ear, the knob of the skull just behind it scraped and raw. No blood seeped from inside the ear.

"If you were using magic in self-defense," Arthur said, teasing the younger boy again in his relief, "you were doing a poor job of it."

"Promised not to," Merlin moaned. More blood dripped from the edge of his ear, it was the only injury that hadn't stopped to scab itself over, yet. "But you were coming – had to do something –"

Arthur squeezed the rest of the water over the ear, and swiped at the drops of blood and water on Merlin's neck and shoulder that the dry cloth had missed. "Of course you did," he soothed the younger boy, paying attention to the conversation only as a means to occupy Merlin's attention.

Gingerly and gently he grasped the top of the ear to turn it forward and examine the back – Merlin hissed but didn't move or protest. It looked like the stone shot from the sling had hit the boy's head with such force that the outer curl of the ear's skin had split, just above the lobe.

"Don't know why you decided to let him use your head for target practice, though," he said, cupping the last piece of clean material in his hand and bringing it carefully to the injury until the bleeding stopped. "Honestly, Merlin, your ears are so big he couldn't possibly miss –"

A faint whine escaped the younger boy at the touch of the cloth. Head injuries bled more; they were also excruciatingly painful. "Promised not to," Merlin repeated. His hand was trembling as Arthur lifted it to support the covering cloth himself. "No magic without… permission."

Arthur began dismissively, "When did you ever promise –" He froze in the act of turning to rinse out the bloody cloths in the stream, hearing his own voice in his head, _You promise?_ He turned back to the younger boy, ducking sideways to catch his gaze. "Merlin," he said, the sudden dryness of his mouth making his voice sound strange. "Hells, you mean you've been –" His throat closed.

Merlin had asked to heal him. The mage-light illuminated their way at his own requesting – _make yourself useful_, he'd said. And then their fight, over so quickly, Merlin's furious and ineffectual frustration – _it wasn't even a challenge_, Arthur had arrogantly proclaimed. _Made me promise_. Merlin had kept that promise as Arthur had straddled the slight wiry body, used his hands to trap the younger boy, push his face in the dust. Had waited for Arthur's permission, he now realized, to use magic against the first and the second tunnel-door both.

Arthur felt tears sting his own eyes. "Ye gods, Merlin," he said unsteadily. "You didn't use magic to defend yourself because of that damn thoughtless _promise_?"

"I'm sorry –" Merlin began again.

"No, shut up," Arthur said roughly. "I owe you the apology, not the other way around. Take it back."

"What?" Merlin's face twisted in a wince or an uncertain squint.

"Take the promise back – I'm giving you your promise back," Arthur ordered.

"But I can't go back on my word," the younger boy protested.

"Dammit, Merlin." Arthur pushed away from him, so angry with himself he wanted his hands away from the sword, before he started laying about the trees of the clearing. "Fine, then I hereby give you permission to use your magic however you choose – as much as is necessary, in whatever way is necessary – fully and freely and without hindrance, now and forever. Does that about cover it?"

A little smile quirked Merlin's lips. "Yes, sire."

Arthur stopped pacing and stared at the boy. Skinny, shivering, pale and blood-smeared, capable of spectacular magic and astonishing humility, trustworthy in a way not many knights were. It occurred to him that he might have found a different sort of treasure beneath Dinas Emrys.

He returned to Merlin's side slowly, picked up and oriented the stained shirt, then dropped it over the boy's head, helped him ease his arms into place without jarring his injuries. Then he pulled the cloth away from his ear; blood still welled from the split edge, but slowly.

"How does it look?" Merlin asked, his teeth chattering just a bit.

Arthur snorted. "Let's face it; your ears were never going to be your best feature, anyway." Merlin huffed, but there was a smile on his face. "Just dab it lightly," he advised. "You focus on getting better – and you _know_ what I mean by that, you don't have to ask permission anymore – and I'll see about finding something to eat." And managing the disposal of the two bodies, he thought. Aside from the cave being their best option for shelter for the night, he didn't suppose Kilgarrah would be pleased to return to two corpses.

As he turned, a twig cracked somewhere farther into the forest. Instinctively he crouched, reaching for the sword that was six feet away. Merlin's eyes gleamed wordlessly, and Arthur caught the hilt that flew to his grip, readying himself for whatever defense might be necessary.

The figure of a man stepped out from behind a tree, twenty feet away, paused as if studying Arthur, then stepped forward, lightly and silently. He was almost close enough for Arthur to make out defining features, when the voice, incredulous and familiar, said, "_Arthur_?"

**A/N: Guess who? :P**

**I took Merlin's spell for the sling from ep 2.8 "The Sins of the Father" – the part where Merlin enchants the rope to sneak up his leg and wrap around his middle, so he and Arthur can sneak out the window… meh, it's close enough. **


	11. To Emrys He Cometh

**A/N: You all had two guesses: Leon and Uther – so now you know who got it right! Cookies for all participants!**

**Chapter 11: To Emrys He Cometh**

_Light of fire and light of sun_

_Both become the chosen one…_

…..*…..

Merlin tensed, but Arthur straightened with an incredulous laugh, dropping the sword back to his side.

"Leon?" he said. Merlin saw the side of a smile on the older boy's face that seemed almost juvenile with relief – a feeling Merlin was far from sharing, especially when two more men stepped out from different points. Arthur greeted them with the same disbelieving recognition. "Sir Ethan? Owen!"

The headache that had pounded through Merlin's entire being had, thankfully, subsided to a dull throb, courtesy of the self-preserving magic that instinctively sped the healing process, at least internally. He still felt dizzy – though that could be blamed on the lack of any food since that morning – but adequate to face the situation.

These men, to judge by the way they greeted Arthur, and he them, were soldiers of Camelot. Knights even, he guessed the warlord's son would be most familiar with them than the general rank and file, despite being dressed as scouts in muted browns and greens, rather than chainmail and red livery. The first one, with hair and beard a shade redder and a length longer than Arthur's, even went so far as to put an arm around Arthur and slap his back.

"Good to see you," he said, and seemed genuinely to mean it. Leon, Arthur had called him. He had a kind sort of serenity about him – a man not easily flustered, Merlin thought.

The younger of the other two dismissed Merlin with a single unimpressed glance, but there was no reservation to his grin as he addressed Arthur, "Your father was beside himself when you went missing. Imagine finding you out here! Maybe I'll get a promotion!"

"Not likely," drawled the oldest, a man in his mid-thirties with a rasp in his voice. He, at least, seemed to have taken in every detail – Merlin's presence, the state of their clothes, the sword in Arthur's hand. Merlin found himself clutching the cuffs of his sleeves, determined to keep the tattoos hidden. "You're not hurt, Arthur?" he added. "We should get back to camp – I sense your story will be a long one."

The younger one with brown hair gave Arthur's shoulder a hard nudge with his own. "Going to have to sing for your supper," he said mockingly.

Arthur returned the grin and gave him a left-handed punch to the shoulder that would have had Merlin reeling back a few steps. It reminded him just how far removed he was from Arthur's daily world. "It'll be better than any of your stories, Owen, I promise you that," he said. "Are you acting senior, Sir Ethan? There's a cave not far from here that would provide better shelter for the night than these trees."

"Sir Bedwyr," Ethan said, by way of explanation. "But first, perhaps an introduction?" He gestured to Merlin. "Forgive me, but this is neither the time nor the place to share camp with a stranger." His tone when he said _forgive me_ was arrogant enough to make it an insult.

Arthur turned, and Merlin thought for a wild sinking moment, _he forgot about me, he'll be ashamed of me, he'll laugh and pretend_ –

"This is Merlin," Arthur said, and hesitated. Everything else he could have added – Merlin of Dinas Emrys, Merlin son of Balinor son of Aurelian, the dragonlord the druid – fell into that pause, as if he did not want to further identify Merlin to his companions. Merlin had time to wonder, _why not?_ when Arthur added, so calmly and casually that Merlin mistrusted his injured ear, "He saved my life."

Leon gave Merlin an approving smile, but Ethan made a skeptical sound. "I will go with your new friend to the cave," he said. "Leon and Owen, escort Arthur back to camp and report to Sir Bedwyr."

Merlin bolted upright, and nearly toppled from the resulting sheet of white that dropped briefly across his vision. He would not be separated from Arthur; he would not go a single step with Ethan.

But it was Leon who spoke. "I'll go with him, Sir Ethan," he said, quietly and confidently. "I can ready the site for your arrival."

"Thank you, Leon," Arthur said, as Merlin's vision slowly cleared and the swaying sensation died down, and there was relief in his voice. "Merlin? I'll see you later."

Arthur sent him a cheery, encouraging grin over his shoulder, and Merlin felt another illogical pang of worry at their separation, however temporary. Arthur was with his father's men – safer, probably, than Merlin alone with a single knight of Camelot. Except for the fact that, remembering his responsibility to the two dragons and the freedom of his magic, he wouldn't be allowing his death, anymore.

"So where is this cave of yours?" the young knight left with him prompted, when they were alone and Merlin had not moved.

He picked up his cloak, thankful that the swelling had subsided so he could see from both eyes again – always good for balance. "This way," he said to the other, gesturing tentatively.

Merlin could sense the cave, the residual magic of the concealed doorway, and further in, the dormant dragon, so he put most of his attention toward his new companion as they made their way. Unlike his reaction to Ethan, he was pretty sure he didn't have to worry about Leon's intentions alone with him, but still the young knight seemed remarkably calm – more so than Merlin felt, at any rate. He asked no questions, though more than once he stopped to study a feature of the landscape that had changed with the explosive opening of the dragon's cave.

When they reached the cave, Merlin clambered immediately to the left, both to be near the magically hidden treasure chamber, and to keep his distance from the bodies, seating himself silently on a low rock and pulling his tattered cloak around him. Leon inspected the rubble and the tunnel in the dim light – Merlin was reminded of the red-haired soldier, but from Leon he sensed curiosity only, none of the underlying threat than Vortigern's soldier had exuded.

He exclaimed in surprise on finding Benley's body. He reached down to free some object from the corpse, before noticing and stepping over to the second body. Then he looked at Merlin, holding up the sling, and asked his first question, "Arthur killed them both?" Merlin nodded. "What happened?" Leon said. "They're Vortigern's men."

"It was my fault," Merlin said. He had no idea what this man might do with the confession, but it was a relief to say. "I called Arthur by name. They heard me and guessed who he was. They were prepared to let a scout go, but…"

"Not the son of Uther Pendragon." Leon punctuated his statement with a thoughtful noise, before turning and grasping the red-haired soldier by his extremities – arms or legs, Merlin tried not to notice.

"What?" he asked, in spite of himself.

Leon dragged the body to the mouth of the cave before answering. "Arthur trusted _you_ enough to tell you his name."

Merlin opened his mouth to object, _well, I was set to die the next day_, but no sound came out.

Leon was gone a short time only; Merlin heard him again before he saw him, now little more than a darker shadow among shadows. He seemed to be carrying a small burden – wood clattered against the stone floor as he stopped in the area of Benley's body.

"Are you any good with starting fires, Merlin?" Leon said. "Sir Bedwyr was adamant about keeping a dark camp tonight, but if it's far enough back in the cave, any lookouts posted on the summit won't be able to see it."

Because it was dark, Merlin allowed the happy grin on his face, even though it stretched sore muscles on the right side of his face. "I'm pretty fair," he allowed. Leon began dragging Benley, Merlin stood and picked his way to the center of the tunnel, gathering the firewood the knight had collected mostly by touch.

He ventured twenty yards back into the tunnel, where the fallen stones that had tumbled down from the cave-door had come to rest, to serve them as seating. Then he arranged the wood, sat back, and glanced it alight. When he heard the murmur of more than one man's voice at the mouth of the tunnel, he moved back from the welcoming warmth, retreating to the edge of the circle of light. As the fighting men made a neat stack of their weapons, convenient and organized, he tucked his cloak around him again.

Arthur came forward confidently, giving Merlin a reassuring smile, and dropping to a lounging position at Merlin's left, and closer to the central fire. Ethan and Owen both emptied armfuls of gathered firewood opposite Merlin, and the older knight crouched to extend hands to the flames for warmth, while the younger went about organizing the meal. The oldest knight, forty years old or more, stocky and jowled, his graying hair a bristle on his head and jaw both, stood over them all for a moment, hands on his hips in approving supervision. He looked solid and unimaginative, observant but unexcitable. Merlin found he was glad this knight led the group, rather than Sir Ethan.

"Rations for five, split among seven, should be plenty," the senior knight observed.

Leon entered the circle beside him and knelt at Merlin's right to place his own bag of supplies within reach. "May I have a look at that?" he offered quietly. Merlin watched him move nearer, not really understanding what he meant until the young knight had turned the right side of his face toward the light of the fire, which meant he was looking right at Arthur, who glanced over at them.

"I did that already," he told Leon.

Leon's fingers were just as gentle as Arthur's had been, checking his skull for fracturing, inspecting the damage of his ear, though it prodded the dull throb into a more persistent ache. "Good job cleaning him up," Leon replied, and leaned into Merlin's view to tell him, "Your ear may scar there, but you're young yet. It might grow out."

Arthur let out a snicker, and Merlin reacted immediately – he'd caught the implications of Leon's unfortunate choice of words that Arthur's chuckle mocked - sticking his near boot into Arthur's ribs to give him a shove that wasn't quite a kick, in retaliation.

The senior knight cleared his throat, turning deliberately to Merlin, and he found himself instinctively scrambling to get up, a frantic apology for something – anything – momentarily tying his tongue. Arthur reached out and put a restraining hand on his shin; Merlin glanced at him, then up at the senior knight.

"I am Sir Bedwyr of Camelot," the man said. "Arthur has vouched for your trustworthiness, and that is good enough for me. However, this is also a time of war, and I feel it only fair to warn you, there are but two sides for any man to choose between in the upcoming battle. You are either for us, or against us – and any sign that you might betray our trust will be dealt with – severely."

Merlin wondered what Arthur had said to him, how much he had told of their story. He opened his mouth to say, _I understand, _or_ yes, sir_, but what came out was, "I defend myself and my kin and my home. I will not fight for Uther Pendragon, but for Arthur I would give my life."

The senior knight looked at Arthur, then back at Merlin. "I see," he said. "Well, young man, let both of you hope it doesn't come to that."

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

Arthur knew the others – except perhaps Leon – would be wondering at them. At the teasing and the trust, both. At such a boy daring such a familiarity, then revealing such a deeply personal truth. And at Arthur - any other squire or boy in training, a kick in the ribs was a clear challenge to fight. Merlin was different. He couldn't explain it. Merlin was – Merlin.

The rest of the evening sped in a blur of a half an hour or less. They were given water to wash and drink, and as much hot food as either could stomach. Merlin was still chewing, in fact, when he laid his head down on the stone floor and closed his eyes against the firelight. Arthur was given the extra blanket – the three youngest knights set to guard the cave's entrance in shifts – and soon dropped into an exhausted sleep.

He dreamed of the training field. Of the open sunny plain and the smell of grass and sweat. The sound of arrows hitting the targets, clang and shout of other training and sparring. The thud of hooves.

He turned to see a single horse ride up, Morgana in the saddle, astride as she always was, spurning the more ladylike sidesaddle. Behind her was Merlin, riding like he was part of the horse, with perfect balance, eyes closed and arms outstretched, his cloak billowing behind him like wings. It was an oddly graceful picture – fitting, somehow, though the two had never met. It occurred to Arthur that Merlin looked more Morgana's brother than he did.

Morgana leaped from the saddle, her black hair billowing in waves behind her, her expression stormy. You idiot! she cried. I warned you! I said, a sword to your throat, a weird mage-light down a dark tunnel, an enormous dark dragon roared fire - on the ground with a terrible wound, I think you were dead!

Merlin kicked one leg over the saddle and slid down from the horse's back, passing Morgana to come so close to Arthur that their clothes brushed with every breath. Why didn't you tell me? the younger boy said quietly. He reached for Arthur's arm, moving it away from his side.

Blood gushed. Pain splintered through him with sudden devastation – he threw back his head to scream and the sun blinded him entirely.

Merlin whispered unhappily in his ear, Why didn't you tell me?

Arthur blinked and found himself staring into white-hot coals, instead of the burning ball of the sun. He shifted in his borrowed blanket and felt a stone beneath his ribs. That's all it was, he scoffed at himself, and made to toss it away. He froze, realizing that Merlin's place beside him was once again empty.

Raising just his head, he glanced around the camp-circle. Next to him, Owen asleep. Next to him, Sir Ethan, Sir Bedwyr, and Pellinore. That meant Leon was on watch, and Merlin… Arthur sat up silently, shaking his head at himself. Only yesterday morning he'd woke in a panic, wondering if the druid boy had deserted him.

Now, he was simply worried that Merlin wasn't resting easy.

Leaving his blanket, he stepped softly and carefully out of the circle of firelight, picked his way among the fallen rubble toward the entrance. He thought he had a pretty good idea of where Merlin might have gone.

"Arthur?" Leon's voice, soft as a breath.

Arthur couldn't locate him for a moment, in the dark this far from the fire, but his eyes gradually adjusted and he realized that Leon was seated to the side of the opening, where he could lean back. He was a scout at heart – there'd be no marching back and forth in the mouth of the cave for him.

"Everything all right?" Leon added, and made a gesture upward at the stars visible through the gaps in the trees that had been made with the opening of the door. "We've got maybe three more hours before Bedwyr wants to start climbing. It'll take a while, going silently and in the dark."

"I'm fine," Arthur answered. "Just looking for Merlin."

Leon straightened on his chosen boulder. "He hasn't come past me," he said only. Arthur wondered if Bedwyr had given the watch orders on what to do in case of such an event.

He simple made a noise of acknowledgement and turned back toward the side of the tunnel where the hidden doorway to the treasure chamber was. It was one of the many points he'd left out of the story told to Sir Bedwyr, but he was glad the taciturn older knight was senior for the small troop instead of Ethan, who'd have pried each detail from Arthur with suspicion and doubt – neither of which this small of a group needed to deal with on the eve of their expedition. He was glad Leon was on watch, also, as his roving hand found the edge of the doorway, sinking as it were into the solid rock. Leon did not ask questions. He saw, he guessed, he kept his opinion to himself, which would serve both Arthur and Merlin well, in this instance.

He couldn't tell how _thick_ the solid-wall illusion might be, but he'd taken only one step forward before he saw the light, that familiar faint blue glow that he'd watched for a couple of hours, at least, the previous morning. _You were following a weird mage-light down a dark tunnel, and an enormous dark dragon roared fire at you, and then I saw…_

Arthur shook himself and stepped forward into the chamber.

And couldn't help gasping. Now it looked like a treasure chamber, every locked lid and drawer and cabinet open, the blue orb that pulsed near the ceiling glinting light from a thousand points of gleaming precious metal and facet of gem around the room. Merlin sat cross-legged in the center of the floor with his back to the door.

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

Merlin knew who had entered, without looking. Without needing to recognize the older boy merely by his intake of breath, or trusting that he hadn't revealed this secret chamber to anyone else. It was just the feeling of the air, unchanged except for the slightest hint of recognition, if not welcome.

"Arthur," he said, without turning. "Why aren't you sleeping?"

"What, like you are?" Arthur began a slow circuit of the room, peering at all the contents of the drawers. He glanced down at Merlin, down at his hands lying palm-up in his lap, empty save for the corded dragon pendant. For a moment Arthur's hand rested on the chest next to the delicate silver tree that Merlin had found – a family tree, he'd thought whimsically, leaving it uncovered.

"It feels more restful in here," he told the older boy. Arthur glanced around the room and nodded; the knights of Camelot might feel like family to Uther Pendragon's son, but to Merlin, they felt like strangers at best, and at worst – enemies. "It's funny, you know?" Merlin added. "Three days ago my greatest worry was outrunning Alvarr. I didn't know my father's name, anything about him. I mean, _anything_. And now…"

"Who's Alvarr?" Arthur said. Merlin didn't answer him; it didn't matter anymore. The older boy's hand dropped to the hilt of the sword at his belt as he took a few more steps. "You should have this back," he offered.

Merlin had seen the weapons rack, as well – he'd wondered what would have happened to them, had the dragonlords not valued this half-dozen blades. "No, it's yours," he said immediately. "Please keep it."

Arthur nodded; he didn't take his hands from the hilt. "It's a decent blade," he commented. Merlin watched him look over each item gathered, organized stored and displayed. It was respectful curiosity that he saw from the older boy, not a hint of calculation of worth or use, no planning, no plotting. Merlin smiled at him. Becoming prince, indeed.

"What did you tell them?" he asked.

Arthur sighed and stood still, but sideways to Merlin, giving him a quick downward glance before toying with a row of coins. "I told them that you and another druid came early for the ritual. I told them that someone suggested another theory, rumors of creatures in caves, and that they'd decided to use the extra day to try to find a way inside the hill to investigate. That you and I went with two guards to find the caves, that my release was contingent on my help – and that earlier today we found this tunnel, but the guards changed their minds about letting us go."

Merlin didn't know whether to be thankful or disappointed. "Not about the dragon?" he said. "Not about the –"

"Not about the magic," Arthur said. "The last thing that anyone needs – you, or me, or any of the knights – tonight, is to suddenly start worrying about who to trust or what someone else might do behind our backs, you understand?"

Merlin nodded. It made sense, he supposed. If two magic-users meant to combine their powers for a single purpose, any disagreement at all over the goal or the means or any particular would be enough to ruin the procedure, and maybe even disastrously. His respect for Bedwyr increased, though – hearing Arthur's version, even without knowing the true story, Merlin could have thought of a half-dozen unanswered questions. Bedwyr had chosen to trust Arthur as Arthur had declared Merlin trustworthy, at least for tonight and tomorrow.

Arthur took a step closer and sat on his heels. "My father deserves to hear the full report first – only tomorrow has to happen before I see him again." Merlin saw the older boy think, _If I see him again_, then give his head a little shake to banish the thought.

"What's the plan, then?" Merlin asked. He'd seen that Arthur did better thinking about specifics, rather than wondering and maybe doubting about bigger questions.

"We'll be climbing the hill in the early hours of the morning to – to neutralize any of Vortigern's men stationed on the hilltop, and to hold it if possible against any retreat the general tries to make."

"You're going with them?" Merlin asked, merely to confirm his guess. He found he was turning his dragon pendant over and over between his fingers, causing the stiffened cord to twist.

Arthur grimaced without any real resentment. "Bedwyr told me, he'd like nothing better than to send me home or to my father, but it's too late and it's not safe. So to protect me and keep an eye on me, they have no choice but to bring me along." Merlin nodded, unsurprised. "I don't suppose I could talk you into staying here. Waiting the battle out."

Merlin smiled at the dragon in his hand. "My mother is safe in camp, a day's walk from here." And didn't it make him half homesick to say it! "I can do nothing for the dragons, right now." He glanced up at Arthur pleadingly. "I might as well come with you."

Arthur's eyes touched on the scabbing by Merlin's right eye, and ear – the aching had calmed to a simple dull discomfort. "You understand," Arthur said haltingly, "I may not be able to protect you?" Merlin gave him a questioning look; when had anyone ever suggested that this was Arthur's responsibility? The older boy added, the blue of his eyes darkly serious, "But I will do my damndest."

Merlin took a deep breath and let it out. To hear the Pendragon's son swearing to guard a druid and a dragonlord – "becoming" nothing, Arthur was a prince already, even if he seemed to have gotten things a bit backwards. Merlin told him, "You understand, I may not be able to protect you?" Arthur rolled his eyes, but Merlin was in deadly earnest when he went on, "But I will do my damndest."

"Merlin," Arthur sighed, pushing himself to his feet, "you are the strangest boy I have ever met."

"No doubt, sire," Merlin said.

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

The climb back up Dinas Emrys was literally a night and day difference from their descent. When they began, Arthur could see about six feet in front of him, all beyond was a blur of shadowy darkness. They made their way by feel rather than by sight, and slowly. Silence was not an absolute imperative, as it would be when they were within earshot of the summit, but if there were enemy scouts lurking about the hillside, better to be aware of them first.

Leon was in the lead, Pellinore and Owen a stone's throw to either flank. Bedwyr and Ethan were in the center, close enough to hiss a question or command if need be. Arthur was ten yards behind them, and Merlin at his heels. He'd been very quiet, the youngest of the group and the least trained or trusted, in spite of Arthur's circumvention of the truth – and probably perfectly aware of that. But it had proved a steadying thing for Arthur's nerves, to have someone to look out for, take care of and reassure, going into the expected combat. It meant that _he_ wasn't worrying about being the youngest and least experienced.

Merlin seemed, however, to do a much better job climbing up the steep slope, than he had climbing down. Arthur had paused to look back a handful of times before the low outer wall of Vortigern's tower was in view around the brow of the hill above them in the gray chill of pre-dawn. Once he'd heard the faint dry patter of stones and leaves as the younger boy tripped and slid backward several feet, but mostly if he heard anything, it was the innocuous sort of brief rustle that could be attributed to nocturnal animals or very early birds.  
Once that wall came into sight, Bedwyr and Ethan climbed even with Leon, who was waiting, and paused to confer in the lowest of tones. Arthur eased himself to lying on his belly on the uphill slant, Merlin beside him, and squinted at the walls. There were no sentries that he could see, and they waited for a quarter of an hour – to make sure, he assumed.

Then Ethan moved around to the left, signaling to Pellinore, while Leon did the same with Owen on the right. Once they'd gotten into a spread position, all four of them, and Bedwyr, dropped their packs and readied a crossbow. Bedwyr nodded once to each side, and began to move forward more deliberately.

Arthur crept behind him, eyes wide and busy, alert for the first sight of an enemy at the wall, his heart pounding and his throat dry. Merlin had refused – of course – to stay with the packs, and because they couldn't explain where they might have gotten another extra sword, because Merlin had never held one in his life, he followed Arthur empty-handed. Owen and Pellinore had been incredulous at this assertion, Ethan mocking; Bedwyr and Leon had said nothing.

They picked their point of attack carefully. As the wall followed the contours of the ground, there were places where it was ten feet high, and places only two. Bedwyr chose a low open rise that led to a three-foot-high section of wall, where he could keep his hands on the bow and his eyes alert for enemies, rather than his footing.

Arthur followed, and Merlin behind him, making sure to leave the senior knight room to maneuver, then moving to the side to use the wall for cover when they reached it. The air and sky were growing lighter by the minute.

Bedwyr rose slowly for a surreptitious look over the wall, then dropped down to signal first to Ethan, just visible where the wall curved on their left, and the same to Leon on the right – they would then pass the signaled orders to Owen and Pellinore further on. Arthur was surprised and pleased that his memory was both clear and quick enough to decipher the message himself.

_Two war engines_ – the catapults, he guessed, _at sixty yards_. That would be the south end of the hill, overlooking Vortigern's camp, and the direction of Camelot's attack. _Twenty men, widely spread, half close and half far. Take the closest with the bows on my mark_.

Arthur took deep steadying breaths to steady his heartbeat. Merlin, who could have next to no idea what to expect, seemed calm if pale, his eyes – dark purple bruising already circling the right one - on Arthur rather than Bedwyr. Arthur gave him a smile. With no extra crossbow, their part would have to wait until –

Bedwyr straightened, raising the crossbow and pivoting to aim over the wall and across the level area. He released the trigger calmly, loaded a second – and then a third with flying fingers, before a warning yell sounded from the enemy.

Arthur readjusted his grip on the dragonlords' blade, and tried not to pant with nervous anticipation.

Then Bedwyr put his left hand down on the top of the wall and surged up – and over, bellowing, "_For the love of Camelot_!"

Arthur heard similar echoing cries from the other four, and forced the words from his tightened throat, surprised at how voicing the tension seemed also to release it, "For the love of Camelot!" Merlin, he noticed, said nothing, though he did not hesitate to vault over the wall himself at Arthur's side.

Bodies of enemy soldiers littered the ground – three in a group here, more scattered singly. Across the site, the bolts or the battle-cries had alerted the other ten or a dozen men assembled around the two catapults – which were, he saw to his instinctive relief, not in use. Whether that meant Uther had not yet attacked the camp, or that the enemy general had planned something else for this pair, he didn't know.

Half the men came toward them, aiming crossbows and drawing swords and screaming challenges. Arthur's feet wanted to rush madly forward, but though he drew his weapon, he remembered his orders and kept his place two paces back from Bedwyr's left elbow. He hoped Merlin remembered to keep behind _him_.

The senior knight did not charge screaming, either. He strode confidently, stepping over obstacles of rubble, shot two more bolts, and ducked one aimed at him, before he tossed the crossbow down and quickened his steps, drawing his sword to engage.

In the cave, Arthur had faced two enemies alone. It had been only common sense to take on the closer of the two first – now he found himself highly nervous about facing multiple possible opponents as part of a team. He was over-thinking it maybe, but – zing! A bolt shot past his head out of nowhere – turning his head to follow it's trajectory, he saw the gleam of gold in Merlin's eyes. While it was still beautiful and impressive, it now also looked dangerous. The boy's expression was impassive.

Ten yards – five – he glanced over the staggered line of approaching enemies – and the eyes of one connected with his own. The man altered his course slightly, so did Arthur. Bedwyr was just at the right edge of his field of vision – two yards –

The enemy drew his sword back over his right shoulder for a cross-body slash. Arthur didn't break stride, but ducked the blow at the last minute as each passed the other, spinning on one foot to strike with his own sword at the enemy's unprotected back, seeing blood spurt, feeling flesh and muscle part, the shock of cracking ribs or spine flying in tiny terrible tremors up the blade to his hilt to his hand…

Rather than checking his momentum, he completed the spin – Merlin five yards behind him avoiding the body as it fell – blue eyes intently focused beyond Arthur. He caught a half-second of the beginning of a warning from the druid boy – a widening of his eyes, his hand beginning to rise, to point. And Arthur faced forward, his blade held two-handed vertically before him, ready to counter any possible attack.

A glint above – one of the catapult guards – only a handful of enemies left? – struck downward toward him. Arthur's foot shifted sideways as his fisted hands on his weapon's hilt darted to his right, dropping his blade to catch the blow, allowing the force of the attack to knock the point of his sword down. As the enemy's blade slid harmlessly down to his left, he raised his hilt above his right shoulder. The moment the two blades were clear of one another, he pushed forward with a short, jerky slash, catching his enemy in the unprotected joining of shoulder and neck, slicing through the jugular vein and windpipe – he freed his left hand to push the twitching body out of his way –

And stopped, panting and gasping. The others still standing were men he recognized – crouched and on guard, but beginning to relax and straighten, even as they cast sharp glances around each other, exchanging wordless reassurances.

It was over. It was over? Arthur blinked and took a clearer look around. A few of the enemy soldiers still stirred or moaned, Ethan was checking a superficial wound in his upper right arm through a rent in the fabric.

He felt someone's hands on him, ribs and neck and face, quick and gentle. He turned and met Merlin's blue eyes as the boy scrubbed the heel of his hand down Arthur's right cheek.

"What are you doing?" he said, bewildered.

Merlin's hands were wet with blood, but in his eyes was immeasurable relief. "It's not yours," he said, showing Arthur his hands. "It's not yours." He glanced around as if looking for something to wipe it on, then squatted in the dust for a dry-wash.

"It's not mine," Arthur said stupidly. He lifted his left hand to his face and neck; his fingers came away smeared and red. He thought he might vomit again.  
"Well done, my lord." It was Bedwyr's voice. He turned again, the senior knight finished wiping his blade on the sleeve of a fallen enemy casually, and stood. Arthur swallowed and forced his eyes to meet Bedwyr's as the older man stepped to his side. "Truly, you are your father's son," he said. "You acquitted yourself with honor, once again. The enemy is defeated – yourself and your companion uninjured." He clapped Arthur's shoulder. "This is, quite possibly, the end of the battle for us".


	12. Light of Fire

**Chapter 12: Light of Fire**

_Take magic's soul to all men's cost_

_If blood be spilled then all is lost…_

_So join the key and ring the bell_

_Descend into the flaming hell…_

_Light of fire and light of sun_

_Both become the chosen one._

…..*…..

Their orders, as Arthur had explained to Merlin the previous evening, were merely – merely! – to take and hold the top. He supposed it was their good fortune that only two catapults and twenty soldiers had been dispatched to the summit after the dragon's departure had been witnessed. It might have been a different story, if there had been fifty soldiers to face. Merlin found he was shivering; he had never killed before. More enemies to face meant letting his companions get hurt – or killing more, himself.

Bedwyr strode away between the two catapults, kicking aside the body Merlin was responsible for, to mount the wall and gaze down the southern slope, hands on his hips. Merlin was glad he hadn't spared the corpse so much as a glance.

"Shall we burn these?" Ethan rasped, putting one boot up on the platform of a catapult. Leon slipped between the great wooden wheels to check the body Bedwyr had discovered; Merlin had a brief moment to panic, and the knight rose without comment.

Needing something to keep hands and eyes and mind occupied, Merlin pried the sword from Arthur's grip and stepped away to begin to clean it on the shirtsleeve of the second man Arthur had killed. The body was facedown, the blood pooling beneath it, but Merlin felt nothing but numb, wiping the bright metal clean of every smear.

"Not yet," Bedwyr decided, in response to the other knight's question. "Sir Ethan, take Pellinore and Owen and guard the track. Try to narrow it if you can with some of this rubble – I leave the placement of the bottleneck to your judgment. Don't wear yourselves out, however, I need you ready to fight. Leon, clear away the bodies, tend any wounded as you see fit. Arthur – retrieve our packs, then you're with me."

And he was with Arthur, that was understood. Merlin rose to standing as the older boy turned to him, and instead of passing the sword to him, instead tugged a gap in his belt at his left hip, where he had been carrying the gifted blade, and slid it into place, making sure the curved ends of the crossguard were hooked securely over the belt. It just felt right to do; Arthur made no comment.

He followed as they clambered over the wall and slid twenty yards down the north side of the hill to the packs. As tired as he was – as early as it still was – Merlin was surprised how close the packs were to the wall. It had felt ages – and ages ago – that they'd crept upward, his heart in his throat, terrified of the unknown. If Arthur had felt anything but anticipation, it hadn't shown on his face.

And now they were victorious.

Merlin had two, and Arthur three of the packs, when they returned to the tower building site. The three knights stationed at the head of the track were indistinct from one another, busily moving and piling rubble to give them an advantage should a greater number of the enemy attempt to re-take the ground. Leon piled bodies behind a jagged section of wall; Merlin very deliberately did not look that direction again.

Arthur chose a place by another sheltering wall; it seemed random to Merlin until the older boy glanced up toward the gap where the gates would be hung, narrowing with three knights' efforts, and to the catapults, where Bedwyr still stood, watching down the hill to the camp, and he realized that Arthur had arranged for a clear line of sight in both directions. They deposited the packs there and the extra weapons.

Before returning to Bedwyr, however, Arthur took the waterskins to the spring-fed well, presumably to provide that small comfort to each of the knights, as they had no other task assigned to them. Merlin shrugged out of his cloak and trailed after him silently to release the catch and allow the bucket to descend. Arthur rested one hip on the lip of the well – the one structure, Merlin reflected, to survive the dragon's impatience. He cranked the wheel to bring the filled bucket back up.

"When's Kilgarrah coming back?" Arthur asked him idly.

Merlin stretched to unhook the rope handle of the bucket from the descending line, and balanced the bucket on the edge of the well beside Arthur. He scanned the sky and stretched out his senses with a wordless query, received a faint and vague reply. "A week, maybe," he said, reaching for the first waterskin.

He was aware that Arthur studied him with a tiny puzzled frown, the same look he gave when he said, _you're the strangest boy_… "Here," Arthur said, almost roughly, pushing Merlin away from the bucket, the full skin of water in his hand. "Why don't you get a proper wash? I wish we could do our clothes as well, but – no, let me fill these."

Merlin clutched at the skin, surprised. "Thank you," he said, watching Arthur lower the bucket again, not quite convinced that the older boy really intended to finish the menial chore himself while Merlin indulged in the relief of the extra water.

"Don't thank me," Arthur said, as Merlin loosened the ties at the neck of the oversize shirt. His smile pulled sarcastically sideways. "I'm telling you that you're filthy and you smell bad."

Merlin wriggling his way out of the shirt cautiously, carefully of the injuries at the side of his head, and gave Arthur an answering grin, ready as the older boy for the relief of lighter verbal sparring. "In that case," he told Arthur, as seriously as he could, "perhaps you should do the same?"

Arthur let the water he was pouring from the bucket into the mouth of the waterskin splash over his hand, then flicked the droplets at Merlin. He made a show of dodging, then turned to his back to Arthur to splash more water over his body himself in washing.

"If I'm going to be a prince," Arthur suggested in a deceptively lazy tone, "you're going to have to start watching how you speak to me."

Merlin made a rude noise without turning. He bent and upended the waterskin over the back of his neck, where his hair was stiff with dried blood from his ear. Rubbing carefully until the water dripped clear, he ruffled his fingers through it to shake the excess water off. As he straightened he shivered a little; his skin was wet and the air was cool. His eyes fell on the uneven rectangular block, and he remembered his last washing – allowing the druid to cleanse him like an object, a container of magic to be poured out to serve another's purpose.

Arthur said then, almost too casually, as if he could see Merlin's thoughts, or wanted to dispel similar ones plaguing him, "For instance, Merlin, you must never make any reference to the way a prince smells –"

Merlin turned away from the block. "Like a pig?" he tossed the retort over his shoulder at the older boy.

"Silence, peasant," Arthur threatened mockingly, "before I drown your insolence in – this water bucket."

Merlin retrieved his shirt, fitting his arms into the sleeves and lifting it carefully over his head. "That doesn't sound half bad," he realized wistfully. "Okay, let me finish those and you can paddle around a bit."

He turned, and froze so suddenly that Arthur spun, tensing to face some threat – then relaxing to say in mild surprise, "Leon."

The other knight came around the side of the well. "Those are quite extensive," he said to Merlin. "May I see?"

Merlin's heart was pounding, and he found he couldn't move. How could Arthur be so calm? A knight of Camelot had seen the proof of Merlin's magic on his bare arms – what would Leon do?

Arthur made an exasperated sound, dropping the last of the waterskins and reaching to the back of his collar to peel off his own shirt. "_Mer_lin," he said. "Don't be such a _girl_."

So Arthur trusted Leon. Merlin's hands still shook as he pushed his sleeves to his elbows, held out his forearms for the knight to see – but he still couldn't bring himself to step any closer. Leon closed the distance, however, and studied the tattooing, nodding to himself. Merlin tried to guess what he was thinking – he'd assumed that only another druid would be able to read the meaning of the symbols depicted on his skin.

Then Leon said, "Does the dragon have a name?" And now Arthur was shocked also, the blue of his eyes growing wary as he went through the motions of washing. Leon only smiled when neither of them answered, and he reached to encourage Merlin's arms to drop back down to his sides. "Come, Arthur," he said mildly. "Your story was as full of holes as a sieve. Something very large blasted out of the side of this hill – and there was no earthquake last night."

"Arthur?" Merlin said, unsure how he should react. Arthur snorted and scrubbed blood and sweat and dust from his skin, but keeping a cautious eye on the knight.

Leon tilted his head, examining Arthur in return. Then he put out his hand to grasp Merlin by the back of his neck, draw him two steps closer, and without releasing him, drew the dragon out from under his shirt. Merlin wanted to snatch at it, to hide it, but found himself submitting to the young man's touch. He kept his eyes on Arthur, trusting him to know what to do. Sir Leon, it seemed, had guessed pretty nearly everything.

"It is a good thing after all, that a son of the dragonlords survived," Leon said, the silver pendant sparkling on the knight's forefinger. "Is it not, Pendragon."

"Leon." Arthur slipped back into his shirt without waiting for the air to dry him. Then he came to them and said to the knight, as he took the pendant and dropped it down Merlin's shirt, "You're scaring my friend." Relief flooded Merlin warmly, as Arthur pushed him gently, and Leon allowed him to shuffle away from his light grip.

"Who happens to be a dragonlord," Leon said. "Your father –"

Whatever Leon would have said was interrupted by a shrill whistle. Leon and Arthur both abruptly straightened, their heads snapping toward the senior knight atop the wall where the catapults waited. Merlin watched Sir Bedwyr's series of signals, but when the other two took off, sprinting for their leader, presumably in obedience to his command, he bent to retrieve the newly-filled waterskins, looping the straps over his shoulder, though the number and weight caused the cords to cut into his skin.

He loped to the three knights still casually barricading the gate area, caught Sir Owen's eye as he dropped three of the skins convenient to their position, and nodded in acknowledgement of the young man's wave of thanks.

Then he joined Leon and Arthur where they stood on the low wall, to either side of Sir Bedwyr. Merlin placed the remaining waterskins on the platform of the near catapult, and seated himself on the wall a couple of paces from Arthur's feet.

"They took them by surprise," Leon commented, and Bedwyr grunted.

Merlin couldn't tell whether either of them thought this a good or a bad thing. Arthur was tense – it was his father leading the knights of Camelot.

He looked out, down the hill. Their position was level with many of the treetops, two or three rose above them. Between these, he could see sections of the track climbing the hill to the west, pale and dusty and deserted. He could see the wooded low-lands stretching away, broken by fields and meadows. The foot of the hill was hidden from them, but much of Vortigern's camp –

Merlin leaned forward. Though dawn had broken half of an hour ago, the camp was still in the shadow of the row of hills rising eastward. He could have sworn he saw – yes, again the flash of red. In the far dim space central to the camp, the areas between cabins and huts and tents, there was movement, the spark of light on metal. The flare of flame too large and uncontrolled for cooking fires. He scrambled to his feet and leaned forward, straining ears as well as eyes. The wind shifted; he thought he could hear the noise of voices and weaponry raised in combat.

Uther Pendragon had attacked Vortigern.

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

Battle was joined, in Vortigern's camp, that much was clear. That was _all_ that was clear.

Arthur stared at the wedge of the camp visible through the treetops as if he could _will_ the victory. His palms were slick and his heart pounded – he wanted desperately to be there, to _do_ something, to defend and to attack. At the same time, knowing that others, the knights of Camelot, battled grimly and sometimes unsuccessfully, for their lives, for the lives of those they sought to protect, to earn peace for, filled him with a deep and terrible fear.

He shifted a few steps on the wall, and bumped into Merlin, catching at the younger boy to help him regain his balance. "Would you get down before you fall, Merlin," he said without rancor. "It would take us all morning to find you if you tumbled down this side of the hill." The southern face was somewhat steeper than the north, the foliage more dense.

"They're driving them back," Leon declared suddenly.

"You're right," Bedwyr responded more slowly. "Out of the camp, back to us, to the foot of the hill. If they try to take the track, Uther should make use of the archers…"

Something about the senior knight's words bothered Arthur. A detail he'd forgotten, maybe…

"What do you see?" Merlin said.

There was something in his voice that made Arthur look at him – young, yes, but slender and taut as an arrow, focused on the ill-defined battle beneath with a faint frown. Again he was struck by the contradictions of Merlin's character. How many squires or boys of that age in training would follow into a fight so bravely, would take the wall to see for themselves instead of using the time to rest in the shade and leave the rest to the men? How many would have taken any excuse possible to remain behind with the packs? Merlin was startling strength disguised in weakness, untold power hidden within a selfless willingness to serve.

He glanced over his shoulder; Bedwyr had moved sideways to point out to Leon some tactic, some aspect of the scene they surveyed. Then Arthur said to Merlin, "What do _you_ see?"

The boy glanced at him, caught his meaning immediately, then looked over Arthur's shoulder at the others for the same reason he had – to ascertain how far away they were, how distracted. Then he turned his gaze down the hill once more, tucked his chin just slightly, and gold flared brilliantly in his eyes. Burned, and smoldered, and Arthur couldn't look away.

Finally the boy blinked, and the gold of magic faded back to blue. "The knights are pushing Vortigern back, as Sir Bedwyr said," Merlin told him, then hesitated. He cocked his head, as if re-evaluating what he'd seen. "Either that, or Vortigern is retreating back here, to the bottom of the track, to the –"

"Sir Bedwyr," Arthur raised his voice to say. His mouth felt dry; now he knew what detail had eluded him. "There are four more catapults, here at the base of the hill." He turned his head to meet the eyes of the senior knight and Sir Leon, both sharpening in shared concern.

"Four more?" Leon said. "But we never saw –" he broke off and swung back to gaze down. "Lord Uther doesn't know! Vortigern must have begun planning to relocate his camp up this hill last night, but only manage to move these two…"

Bedwyr swore, ponderously and impressively. "The general has two advantages here – the high ground, and the war machines," he said. "He's not being pushed, he's deliberately falling back to protect his advantages – his troops will consolidate and defend – Uther has lost the advantage of surprise, has not that of superior numbers. Vortigern will hold him off and drain his strength until he retreats, then move his men up here – and we will never get him down."

"What if we burn these two?" Arthur suggested, his blood running cold to hear the knight describe inevitable failure so clearly. "Then Vortigern will know he's lost the hilltop, and my father will know we have it, and –"

"And Vortigern will fight the more fiercely to defend the catapults remaining," Bedwyr said, implacably morose.

Leon cursed, more quietly and calmly, and strode another ten feet down the wall, to try to get a better view.

"What can we do?" Arthur said desperately. If Bedwyr was right, his father could not win the fight on the flat-land today, and the half-dozen of them could not hope to keep the remainder of the general's forces from reclaiming the summit tonight. And then it would be a siege-war, and revolt in the west, and the balance of power his father had fought and negotiated to establish, the peace they struggled and died for, would collapse.

"From here? Nothing," Bedwyr said grimly.

"Then we go down," Arthur said. "Take Vortigern from the rear, by surprise – he doesn't know we're here, does he? – burn the other four. He has nowhere to make his stand, no cover, no advantage."

Bedwyr didn't look at him. "Our orders were to hold the top. Not descend. And so we may be killed without accomplishing our goal, and Vortigern's path to the summit is clear and unhindered."

Arthur wanted to kick something, throw something in frustration, but such a display would cause the senior knight to discard his words as a childish rant without weighing them at all. "Someone can remain," he said. "Fire these two when the smoke rises from the other four. My lord knight, by this battle Camelot will stand or fall – let us not wait to see!"

"You'd split our forces?" Bedwyr said neutrally, looking at him, then. "No doubt you'd risk yourself – the heir of our warlord – descending the hill, trying to fight off the rear guard long enough to destroy _four_ catapults?"

Arthur took one breath, holding the senior knight's eyes. "Yes," he said evenly.

"Arthur?"

It was another moment before he looked away, down and back at Merlin – who was perfectly still, and pale, balanced on the wall with his eyes closed. "What, Merlin?" he said, trying to keep the frustration he felt out of his tone.

"I can set the fires," the boy said quietly. "The four. I can start them burning."

Hope sparked almost painfully in his heart. "From how far?" he asked.

Merlin didn't open his eyes, but a small line appeared between his eyebrows. "Twenty yards," he said.

Bedwyr spoke, right at Arthur's shoulder, so close Arthur jumped. "And how might he do that?" the senior knight said softly, his eyes narrowed, but not in surprise.

Arthur met Leon's gaze over the older man's shoulder, saw that he'd heard Merlin's offer also, and understood it. Saw the hope that had come to the younger knight, also. Merlin, still without looking, shoved his sleeve up and his arm out, baring the mark of magic for the three of them to see.

Bedwyr did not react. "You knew," he said, looking at Arthur. "And still you trust." It wasn't quite a question, nor yet a certain statement.

Arthur said, "Yes." Bedwyr looked back down the hill, scowling in concentration, and Arthur ventured, "Merlin and I can make our way down, we can stay hidden and fire the catapults – and retreat back up here to the summit. Vortigern's troops will be scattered and demoralized – my father will prevail."

"Cannot the boy go on his own?" Bedwyr said. "With such strong magic, surely he would be in no danger at all." His tone was just slightly mocking.

Arthur shot Merlin a look – saw panic in his eyes at the thought of such an undertaking alone, but also a strange hope – and knew it meant Merlin would agree, would not mind if Arthur stayed behind in safety.

"No," Arthur said firmly. "If he goes, I go." He was aware that Bedwyr was fully capable of physically restraining him and sending Merlin – and that his father would applaud that course of action over any other. He began to back away from the senior knight, pushing Merlin behind him. They could leap from the wall and Bedwyr would have no chance of catching them…

"I will go with them, Sir Bedwyr," Leon said. "If Arthur would be Merlin's protection, then I would be Arthur's."

Arthur halted; the senior knight was considering it. He breathed, and Merlin shivered behind him, and a wayward breeze brought a suggestion of battle to his ears.

"Stay here," the senior knight ordered, and dropped down to the leveled ground inside the wall, striding past the two catapults toward Sir Ethan and the two younger knights near the gates. He whistled shrilly for their attention, and Ethan hurried to meet him.

The senior knight and his second in command conferred, Bedwyr gesturing in their direction – indicating the catapults, or the lowland camp, or the three of them still standing on the wall, Arthur couldn't tell. Ethan disagreed, arguing strenuously, gesturing curtly. Bedwyr listened, nodded, then overrode the other's objections. Then he retrieved two of the crossbows and rejoined them, tossing a waterskin to Arthur also. Then he seated himself on the wall, and swung his legs over.

"Let's go," Bedwyr said, and dropped down to the hillside. Leon slung his crossbow over his shoulder, crouched to put one hand down on the wall, and joined the senior knight.

Arthur turned, elated and terrified, and stopped at the sight of a single tear tracking down Merlin's face. "What's the matter?" he said. "You know, you don't have to do this if –"

"Join the key," Merlin said unhappily. On a wind from below, a horn sounded a many-noted call. It was not a sequence he recognized, one of Vortigern's, then. Merlin gulped and said, more faintly, "And sound the bell… descend into the flaming hell."

Arthur stared at him, remembering what he'd said in the tunnel below the hill – prophecy often has more than one application of fulfillment. In his dream, he'd heard Morgana yell, _I warned you_! He was uninjured now, but… Merlin had whispered, _Why didn't you tell me_? Why didn't he tell the druid boy the nightmares of his sister, that seemed to have come true til now? His own dream last night?

Because there was no way that Merlin would let him go, knowing what he knew.

He said to his friend grimly, "For the love of Camelot. Let's go." Merlin followed silently, off the wall, down the hill.

One of these days, Arthur told himself, the boy was going to catch a break. One of these days they were going to bathe properly and stuff their bellies and sleep in a bed and _sleep in_… and no one would ask them or expect them to risk their lives…

A little voice said in the back of his head, _until the next time_.

The southern descent was swift and dangerous, a steeper slant through trees and bushes, rejecting the easier and longer open track. It was a controlled fall, a long slide downhill with an occasional stop to look and listen and let the stones and dust and leaves and deadwood settle, take a mouthful of water and continue. They made haste slowly, knowing that to betray their position almost certainly meant death.

Before long, they could hear the clang and shout of warfare filtering constantly through the trees , a little smoke from the destruction of the camp. Bedwyr held up one hand, and they each slid to stopping.

Arthur bent to try to peer through the trees to see the catapults, and caught glimpses of the whitened timber frames. They weren't currently functioning either, being of little use in such a mixed skirmish. Catapults were for assaulting a fixed position, or scattering an army advancing in ranks for battle. The damage was wide and indiscriminate; Vortigern would not risk that here and now. His soldiers protected the war machines against future attempts made by Uther and the knights, to oust them from Dinas Emrys. Today, they need only hold his father off to be victorious.

Or so they thought. Arthur grinned to himself, shrugging off the darker worries of fate and destiny. He was right where he belonged.

Bedwyr made three swift gestures, and Arthur leaned toward Merlin to hiss, "Are we close enough?"

Merlin's eyes flared golden, and for a second Arthur panicked, sure that premature fire would flare before they were ready. But nothing happened. _For the first two,_ Merlin mouthed.

Arthur held up two fingers to Bedwyr, then made an abrupt cutting gesture. The senior knight grimaced, looking back down to the foot of the hill. Arthur thought he understood the dilemma – did they set the first two aflame and move, or move before setting all four fires? Either way risked discovery before completion of their mission…

Bedwyr made more curt gestures, and Arthur's heart thudded in anticipation. He met Merlin's eyes and jerked his head to the left, an unspoken request for the younger boy to follow. Leon was already moving ahead of them, slow and steady and silent as a shadow – Arthur was glad they were under the trees now. High noon on the hilltop would be pretty warm, today.

He followed Leon, and Merlin followed him, trying to creep quietly and unobtrusively. He could see more of each of the catapults, some movement of men behind and among them. He wondered what would happen to these when the fires started, and hoped the same worry had not occurred to the young druid boy.

Leon stopped and turned, pointing down to the ground with both eyebrows raised. Arthur turned to Merlin to mouth, _Here_?

Merlin glanced to both sides, holding out his hands as if in measurement, then nodded at Arthur. He was deathly pale and terrified – but determined. Arthur nodded to Leon, and drew his sword slowly as Leon fitted a bolt to the crossbow. He glanced past Merlin to Bedwyr, who had done the same, and was watching them, with an occasional alert glance forward and to their right. The senior knight caught Arthur's eye, and gave him an exaggerated nod.

Arthur twisted to face Merlin. "Whenever you're ready," he said calmly, keeping his voice low.

Merlin nodded, letting his weight rest back against the hillside, his bootheels braced securely, his back straight. His arms outstretched, fingers spread, palms facing both forward and in. He took two steadying breaths.

Then his eyes ignited. Arthur spun, expecting – he didn't know what. But nothing happened. They waited. Leon glanced back, and Bedwyr a moment later. Arthur determined to keep his eyes forward and show all confidence in his friend. Merlin was whispering, he thought, though he couldn't distinguish any of the words.

Moments passed. He could hear each breath passing through Merlin's nostrils in controlled gasps, steady but – increasing in pace? between snatches of softly chanted phrases.

There was more smoke, he thought. More activity. More, and faster. More and louder shouting – a flicker of flame. Arthur's head turned – below and beside him, Leon's did as well. Another flicker, directly in front, a surge of flame to the right. Now they could hear the crackling of the catapult frames ablaze – all four at once.

Arthur found it hard to breathe, and not because of the acrid smoke drifting in wispy clouds through the trees. Because victory was so _close_, the magic – as the fire – was mesmerizingly beautiful and dangerous, powerful and unpredictable and demanding.

He risked a glance behind him. Merlin hadn't moved, but his fingers were more claw-like, his face hollowed and bone-white, his mouth dropped open to breathe, his eyes blazing like the heart of a forge.

He remembered Merlin touching the straw on the dirt floor indicating the highest point of the range of the power of magic - _this is me, evidently_. Leashing himself to a nearly unintentional promise – and keeping it, even though he'd lived through the day, even knowing he'd made it to an enemy's son. _Ye gods, who is this boy?_

The shouting alerted him, and Arthur turned back to see soldiers emerge from the smoke, coughing, struggling to escape the conflagration, some beating out licking tongues of flame on various items of clothing – some more alertly scanning the hillside for the enemy responsible. One, then another, jerked and collapsed, as the knights' crossbow aim was true.

Merlin's voice was steady in his chant, low but piercing - drawing attention. Arthur gripped the hilt of his sword as Leon and Bedwyr shot, aimed, shot again. Then drew their own blades to continue the defense as long as necessary.

The ground was exceedingly horrible. The extreme slant, the loose scree underfoot, shrubbery and branches – an all-out downhill rush would have been preferable. But Arthur didn't dare allow the swordplay to draw him away from Merlin's side. If he would finish the spell – the incantation – climb a tree to safety or something…

Arthur slashed wildly at two attackers at once – one blocked but clumsily and the tip of Arthur's blade caught the inside of his elbow, severing skin, muscle, tendon – it dangled uselessly, and he retreated in shrill agony . The other slipped suddenly on the body of a comrade already felled by Arthur's blade, and he took advantage of that moment of vulnerability to cut him down also.

Merlin's voice rose, commanding, insisting. The four separate fires now seemed one long conjoined row – roaring higher to encompass the raised throwing arms and the upper framework.

Arthur heard the shouted word, _sorcery_. More of the soldiers, it seemed, were retreating around the flanks of the inferno – he had yet to see a single red-cloaked knight follow. Leon was now only five yards away, and Bedwyr even closer on the right. Protecting _him_, he thought, not Merlin, any longer.

His body was heaving to breathe, in the smoke and exertion, streaming sweat. His arm felt heavy and leaden, eyes scratchy and throat dry; he wondered how long they'd been fighting, now. He ducked a blow, and as the man's sword struck the tree Arthur used to brace his balance – struck and _stuck_, for one crucial moment – Arthur jammed his blade through the soldier's gut.

He took advantage of the brief respite to whirl and shout hoarsely, "Merlin! Good enough! Go, now! Back uphill!" If Bedwyr and Leon could close with them, if they could retreat fast enough, climb more quickly than their enemies, and remained lucky about arrows or crossbow bolts shot after them, maybe…

Merlin looked at him, exhausted and grimy with smoke and sweat – so much for their wash, Arthur thought with humor – but his eyes were blue. _Well done_, he thought at the younger boy, inordinately pleased with the strength and skill of the magic, as though Merlin had emerged the champion from some tournament.

"Move your bones!" Bedwyr roared at them, pounding sideways and up the hill.

Merlin seemed to realize the presence and approach of enemies all at once – his eyes widened and he turned to scramble up the hill ahead of Arthur, grabbing at anything stable to pull himself up, planting his boots on the uphill side of tree trunks for foot-holds. Arthur threw a look over each shoulder to make sure there were no immediate threats to turn and face – Leon passed him, balanced and sure-footed as a deer. He paused to shove his borrowed sword back into his belt, deciding that his right hand would be better used for climbing than for defensive preparation.

Something slammed into his right side, so hard and fast it flipped him over, taking his feet out from under him. He hit the ground and lost his breath… and gaped, trying to draw in air even as every nerve tightened to make it impossible.

Orange and yellow roared and danced before him – below and above. Somehow, he thought, he'd landed on a chunk of burning spar, maybe – it would explain the sensation of massive bruising and hot agony along his side. As soon as he could breathe, he'd – nope, couldn't wait. He tried to roll away from it, but his legs shuffled uselessly. He tried to push it away with his hands. They only twitched feebly.

The smoke blurred his eyes. A man loomed, a large bearded stranger, blade upraised, eyes glinting and teeth bared. _Now I'm _really_ in trouble_, Arthur thought. He cringed, but caught a moment above the man, as a thick branch detached from somewhere overhead crashed down on the soldier. The glinting eyes rolled dully, the man swayed.

Merlin materialized at Arthur's side, stretching to snatch the blade away or catch it as it was dropped, Arthur wasn't clear on that – and thrust it into the man so hard the body tumbled backward with the sword still embedded in it.

Merlin knelt beside him, saying his name. He couldn't hear him properly, couldn't feel if the younger boy was touching him past the roaring in his side. His friend, Arthur noticed, was sobbing horrified tears – Merlin raised one hand to wipe his eyes on the back of his wrist, and his hand was wet with blood. _Freely given, and measured in drops?_ he thought confusedly.

"It's not mine," he tried to say.

He could hear Leon shouting, and maybe Bedwyr, but it was far away, and echoed in the darkness – when had it gotten so dark? The sun should have been overhead by now…

_Arthur_. He heard Merlin's voice, oddly clear when all else was fading, dim and distant. _Do you trust me?_

_You know I do_, he responded, even though he couldn't make his mouth say anything.

_Then follow_.

A spark jumped in his side, exquisitely unbearable. And again, and again, a whole host now of fireflies igniting him from inside, spreading and spreading, fluttering glowing – he relaxed, felt his heart thump… and then thump… warm… safe… thump…

Time stopped.


	13. Light of Sun

**Chapter 13: Light of Sun**

_Be wary of Dinas Emrys hill_

_The ancient magic sleeping still…_

_Take magic's soul to all men's cost_

_If blood be spilled then all is lost…_

_So join the key and ring the bell_

_Descend into the flaming hell…_

_Light of fire and light of sun_

_Both become the chosen one._

…..*…..

When Merlin was small, using magic had been like trying to pour water into his mother's sewing thimble from a full bucket. There would be nothing – then a sudden and often overwhelming gush.

It had been Iseldir, sitting over the first ink-work on Merlin's right wrist, distracting him from the pinch and sting he'd childishly assumed was punishment for his interruption of Alvarr's coming-of-age ceremony, by teaching him how to harness the opposing concept – dipping the thimble into the bucket. Use only as much as was necessary when it was necessary, and leave the rest untapped potential, deep and serene, not spilling out randomly and uncontrollably.

It was frighteningly satisfying to draw so deeply from the well of magic within.

"_Bael on bryne_." As Merlin began to speak the words of the spell, the trees and the men between him and the object of his incantation began to blur, to fade, allowing his sight to pass through them like mist, to focus on the dry timber of the catapults, the ropes of the pulley system, the stretched hide forming the cup, even the metal of the nails.

He whispered, slowly, "_Thurh minum gewealde,_ _ond minum maegen_.."

It wouldn't do to attempt a sudden flash-flaming of every single section of wood – hundreds of pieces, there were – and have half Vortigern's army scouring the area for the sorcerer responsible. The fire had to be sustained by magic for a time before he could release it to consume the structures on its own; he needed to continue uninterrupted. Nor would it do to start with such tiny wisps of smoke that whatever guards were present could douse his efforts easily and waste his strength and time.

"_Geflippath we thone liegthe ealla awestath_…" He spoke to bring heat to the underside of the platforms, one than another down the line, laying on the initial spell, then increasing the amount of magic flowing to each, spreading toward the edges of the platforms, toward the wheels, smoke beginning now to rise, flung water was wasted water – and now the flames were free.

"_Ligfyr_," Merlin finished, commanding the fire as his servant, his warrior, thousands of tongues – _climb here, don't pass over that there, leap and free and rise. Consume. Let not this machine of war be used. Cleanse and refine and purify._

He felt the heat wash over him, welcome him in its embrace. The smoke spiraled around him, dancing, the orange light vying with the yellow of the sun. Human voices rose over the conversation of the flames – playful, determined, wild, obedient. Absolutely without malice, without mercy. Men's voices intruded, screaming challenge, warning, pain. _Sorcery_, he heard.

And his name. Slowly he released the magic, loosening his grip, retracting the guide and control, freeing the fires to follow the laws of nature. The trees began to take form once again, dark columns dividing the fiery glow in his vision. One black form wavered before him.

_Well done_, Arthur said clearly. Other forms quivered behind him, the menacing imps of the hell he'd created – _descend into_, he thought. Now they needed to draw themselves up once more, out of smoke and spark and danger, up to the clearer air.

He felt heavy and slow as he turned, his hands once filled with magic now empty and useless, weakly clawing to pull himself up by solid handhold. Dread filled him inexplicably – he was too late, had done too much, had taken lives, had unleashed destruction. His soul… _his soul_…

His soul screamed. Time slowed and he turned to see Arthur fall.

Backwards, onto the steeply sloping ground, limp and broken. A bearded imp towered over Arthur, raising his sword high to deliver the killing blow, the light of fire flashing along the length of the metal – bright orange and dripping red.

Merlin's upward glance was swift and accurate, and a jagged length of dead branch crashed onto the man's head. Dazed, he swayed and began to drop the sword – which would then land on Arthur. Merlin darted forward, reaching with utter disregard for his fingers for the falling blade, catching the hilt, then driving the point forward with all his strength as he had seen Arthur do.

The man tipped back, tumbling backward himself, down the hill. Merlin looked down at Arthur, blue eyes glazed, skin gray-white. Blood flowed from the gash in his shirt, the wound in his side, in waves that marked the beating of his heart, the weakening attempts to pump life around his body, and instead forcing it out.

Merlin was not a healer. This he could not fix.

The fire roared, leaping up still higher. _Take magic's soul to all men's cost… if blood be spilled_… They'd taken Arthur's blood. And thus, Merlin's soul.

The warlord father would be inconsolable, ruthlessly wreaking his vengeance on any and all he held responsible. Merlin was responsible – and because of him, the druids and the dragons. Camelot would be a hell of fire and blood, no promise of peace no prince becoming the greatest king…

His fury knew no bounds. His rage burned unchecked.  
The air blew screaming down the hillside to join with the eager reaching inferno, the earth rippled toward their union. The enemy soldiers were sticks and twigs to be brushed away, the hillside cleared of all enmity. But vengeance was not enough, nor justice, nor victory. A power such as he could not walk the earth soulless, broken.

He raised his face to the canopy of leaves overhead, tossed and scorched, the blue and blaze of yellow beyond. _Emrys hill – sleeping still. With hair of sun and gaze of sky, the bell will ring_… will toll – twelve, on the stroke of noon… _let him by_.

Time slowed. The sun hung motionless at its zenith, above all. Magic welled within him, filling him, spilling over, fed by the springs of Emrys.

It had taken the combined power of two dragons and their lord to accomplish the spell to keep the two in stasis for four decades. He had no idea how his magic alone compared to that power, but he needed only magic sufficient for one man. For _long enough_.

The dragon had given him a wordless complexity as explanation – he clutched at understanding, squeezed it in his grip, then turned and poured it all over Arthur, into Arthur, seeking the last spark of consciousness, the last drop of essence.

_Arthur - do you trust me?_ he begged, and received his answer. _Then follow_.

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

All around Arthur was light in every shade of yellow, from gold to white. It was like lying in a meadow and gazing up at the pulsing sun. Except the light did not hurt his eyes, nor did dark spots grow to dim and protect his vision.

Yet he could see nothing. He tried to turn his head, and found it easy to do… but there was nothing to see. Up, down, all around – he wondered if he was blind, he couldn't even see the rest of his body where he expected it to be. He realized then that there was an absence of orienting sensation. He could not tell if he was sitting, standing, lying down, but he was not weary or sore – or hungry or thirsty, either. How very odd.

There was nothing to see or feel – no taste of smoky grit or blood from a split lip or bitten tongue. No smells – no need to breathe, though there was no instinctive fear of suffocation, either.

"Arthur."

His mind interpreted his reaction as turning to see who had spoken, and where they might be. The light swirled, somehow, like mist; a shadow of the lightest gray appeared so gradually he could not say at what point it became an impression – a belief – a fact.

The shape was slender but not tall, human. Male, he thought, though as the apparition solidified and gained clarity of feature, he knew he had never seen a person like this before.

He was dressed cleanly, neatly, and simply in a white shirt and dark brown trousers and boots. But the figure's skin, visible from the collarbone up and the wrists down, was a translucent blue, beautiful and eerie and shifting, as though a bright white light shone from behind glass the shade of noon sky in summer. There was no indication of movement, and Arthur certainly took no step, but he and the figure drifted closer.

His hair was black as a raven's wing, gleaming iridescent, shaggy and tousled. He gazed at Arthur with eyes glowing golden like coals breathed upon. "Arthur," he said.

The cautious feeling dissolved into recognition. "Merlin?" Arthur said incredulously. "What the hell happened? Where are we?" He looked around again, and realized he could now see himself, also. His shirt was an odd thing, looking like chainmail belted at his waist, light as cotton on his skin, and feeling to the touch of his fingers tough as metal but smooth like fabric, red, and with the golden rampant dragon of Camelot over his heart. There was a sword at his side, also.

Merlin said wonderingly, "It worked." He put out his hand to touch Arthur's arm, gathering the material in his blue fingers like a small curious child, until he had a handful. Then his grip tightened fiercely, and his head dropped until Arthur saw only the gleam of his inky hair, and the thin shoulders under the white shirt shook.

"What's the matter?" Arthur said. "What happened? Where are we?"

"I'm sorry," Merlin gasped, and the sound of his voice made Arthur reach forward to grip the younger boy's upper arms to support him. "You were wounded, and I – I didn't know what else to do." Merlin raised his head, tears dripped glistening like sapphires down his face.

"I was wounded?" Arthur released him, remembering, and felt at his side. His flesh was whole, unharmed, skin intact, not even a bruise to be felt.

Merlin whispered, "Mortally."

Arthur stared at him, at the golden eyes and the blue skin and said, "Well, what happened to you, then? And _where the hell are we_?"

"It's not really a _where_," Merlin said. "You and I are still lying on the side of Dinas Emrys."

Arthur felt sick to his stomach for a moment. "We're dead," he said. His father… Morgana… Leon… Faint pride that he had died in battle, helping win victory, was mostly submerged in guilt over the ones he'd left behind.

"No," Merlin said. "We're in-between. I performed the same enchantment on you that was put on the two dragons, forty years ago."

"So I'm not dead, but sleeping?" Arthur said.

"Not really - it's more like you're caught at that moment of high noon. It puts a stop to all the processes of your body – respiration, circulation, digestion," Merlin said. "I've essentially stopped your heart to prevent you bleeding to death. If we can get you to a physician –" he bit his lip and corrected himself in a low murmur - "a _really good_ physician, we should be able to heal you… and then I can bring you back."

Arthur looked all around them again. Still, nothing else – not even a floor beneath their feet – but he was perfectly comfortable standing. Or perhaps they were just floating parallel to one another. The thought gave him a dizzy feeling.

"What about you, then?" he said. "You're under this enchantment, also?"

"No," Merlin said. "I'm – communicating. Like – deep meditation. I'm – not really sure, I've never done it before."

The feeling of dizzy nausea strengthened. Ye gods, the druid boy was experimenting on him in a life-or-death situation. _You could be just dead_, he told himself, and made a conscious decision to keep trusting his friend, no matter how unlikely the explanation might sound.

"So how long will this take?" Arthur said. Physically he felt fine, but he wondered if the dragons hadn't gotten _bored_ for forty years. He might be bored in forty minutes, here.  
"I don't know." Merlin bit his lip again. "I'll try and come as often as I can, stay as long as I can, but…" He stopped completely, and shifted his golden gaze away.

"But what?" Arthur said.

Merlin gave his head a little shake. "No, I'll tell you later," he said, and to Arthur's ears there was a hint of doubt, as if he might have added, _if there _is_ a later_. "I'm sorry, I have to go – I have to take care of you."

Arthur forced a smile, shoving down the rising panic so it wouldn't show. "You know that sounds mad, don't you?"

Merlin gave him a brief wide grin, and reached for his hand. "Bye, Arthur."

Arthur hesitated to touch that gleaming blue hand. "See you soon," he said lightly, taking it in a brief, firm grasp. Merlin's skin felt cool but not cold, and Arthur found himself wondering what the tattoos might look like, here.

Merlin nodded, stepped back. The mist swirled, and -

_FLASH_

And he rushed forward once again, seizing Arthur around the middle and burying his face in his shoulder. "Oh hells oh hells," the druid boy chattered. "You're here, you're really here." He was shaking like a leaf.

"What are you on about?" Arthur said, confused. "We just talked about this. Yeah, still here."

"They said I was insane. They said it was impossible. Your – your father said –"

"Merlin," Arthur said firmly, hating the scared confusion that was starting to bloom inside him. He patted the boy's shoulder awkwardly, then gently disengaged. "Slow down and calm down. What do you mean, my father? I thought you'd never met him."

"No, I haven't before today." Merlin shuddered. "Please don't be offended but your father may be the one man who really –"

"Stop," Arthur said. "How did you have time to meet my father? Aren't we both still lying on the side of Dinas Emrys? You just said you had to leave to take care of –"

Merlin's golden eyes were wide. "I did leave," he said. "I did the enchantment at noon. Six hours ago."

Six hours. Arthur said dumbly, "It was – half a second. For me."

For a moment they stared at each other, then Merlin's luminous blue face lit with the happiest grin Arthur had yet seen – it made him look young, even as the blue-and-gold colors of magic made him seem somehow older than time itself. "That's wonderful!" he said. "It means –" he began to pace, which was odd to see, without ground or floor beneath him. "It means that when I'm here, you can sense the passing of time – and when I'm not, that sensation ceases to exist, also."

"What's so wonderful about that?" Arthur grumbled.

"It means you won't have to be here alone," Merlin said simply, radiant with happiness. "I was really worried about that. The last six hours have been –"

"Tell me what happened," Arthur demanded. "Are Bedwyr and Leon all right? What about Sir Ethan, and Owen and Pellinore? Is the battle over? Was my father wounded?"

Merlin twitched suddenly and said to Arthur's left shoulder, "Yes. Yes, I'm sorry, I know. I'm with him, here, now."

"What the hell now?" Arthur said, finding himself annoyed. He was just supposed to be patient with all this strange magic going on? He was expected to understand any of this?

Merlin met Arthur's eyes. "Did you hear him?"

"_Me_?" Arthur said, to make sure and to goad the younger boy a little. "Are you speaking to me, now?"

Merlin gave him a small smile. "While I'm connected to you, I can still hear your physician, Gaius."

_Oh, good – Gaius_, Arthur thought. "What happened?" he said again. "In the last six hours. I wasn't there, remember?"

"I promise I'll tell you everything," Merlin said, then switched his gaze to the side again. "Yes, Gaius, I'm getting to it – if you know Arthur, you know he's asking questions and demanding explanations!" Merlin gave an exasperated sigh, speaking once again to Arthur's face. "We're in the hospital tent, your father and Gaius are with us, I've explained everything but they want proof before they believe me – satisfied?"

"Proof?" Arthur said.

"Have you a message I can give Gaius?" Merlin said.

"Tell him…" Arthur thought, then filled his lungs and let it out in a sigh. "Tell him I wish he'd told me the whole prophecy, when I asked him. And that he should use comfrey on my wound."

Merlin repeated what he'd said, aloud. Arthur found it odd that Gaius should be able to hear what was said by one of them, but not the other, when they were an arms-length apart. Merlin paused a moment, then offered Arthur a smile. "He says, _good lad_." Arthur grinned, able to hear the words in the old man's stern-but-affectionate tones. "Have you – any message for your father?" Merlin added uncertainly.

Arthur felt a mental and emotional discomfort that had nothing to do with the relaxed state of his body. No heart to pound, really, no mouth to feel dry or palms sweaty, as would be his reaction to standing physically in his father's presence after the last three days. _Have you any message_ meant _what do you have to say for yourself_.

What could he say? _I'm sorry?_ But he wasn't, not really. Sorry for disobeying, and worrying his family, but for nothing else. Not for any of the choices he'd made since that first, to come to Dinas Emrys. _I love you?_ Not something he remembered ever hearing from his father, not a sentiment he and his sister were encouraged to voice – their attachment was shown in other, more hidden ways, never spoken.

He said, "Tell him, for the love of Camelot."

Merlin looked at him, those golden eyes seeing him, all of him, heart and soul, through and through – understanding and approving. And proud. When had Merlin's pride in him become a thing that he treasured?

The boy relayed his message, then faced Arthur again. "I have to go," he said. "Gaius says we have work to do if we want to save your life. I'll be back when I can…"

"You promised me an explanation, remember?" Arthur said, lightly teasing.

"I did. And I will." Still Merlin lingered.

"You know you don't even have to say goodbye," Arthur told him. "I'll blink and you'll be back, right? So – I'll see you soon."

Merlin nodded. "If – if you feel any pain, I'm sorry, okay?" The druid boy drifted back, and –

_FLASH_

Pain splintered through him with sudden devastation – he threw back his head to scream and - The bright light of this in-between place soothed him back into complete tranquility in an instant. He shook his head, slightly disoriented.

Merlin staggered forward, a hazy swirl of blue and gold and black, white and brown clothing. "Sorry!" he gasped. "Can't stay, only have a minute. It's midnight, that's the only reason I can make it right now. I had to adjust the original spell to allow for the healing process - Gaius is coaching me to try to heal you, only he doesn't know much about this enchantment's effects on your body, either – healing magic is intense and complicated and –"

"Breathe, Merlin," Arthur told him, and added mockingly, "We've got time."

"Yes. Right." Merlin obeyed, gulping for breath, though it was a residual reaction unnecessary for here, Arthur thought. "I'm to sleep now, and continue in the morning – I'm afraid your father is more concerned about the wound in your side than for this communication link."

More likely, Arthur thought, his father's concern would be for the young sorcerer's influence over the unconscious mind of his son. "Don't worry about it, Merlin," Arthur said. "I trust you. Go to sleep now-" he grinned. "I'll see you soon."

_FLASH_

The gray hazy figure took some moments to coalesce, and Arthur began to worry before the features began to clear. And when they did, he was still worried. The gold of Merlin's eyes had darkened to a dull bronze, the blue of his skin dimmed to a lusterless tone.

"Are you all right?" Arthur said instantly.

Merlin nodded, but didn't speak immediately, and seemed to find it difficult to hold his gaze up to that of Arthur's. Perception shifted, and suddenly it felt less like they were standing face to face and more like each was lying on his side, facing the other, though there were still no visual or other sensory markers, no urge to curl up or tuck an arm under his head. It was just – in this place of calm ease – more restful.

"What happened?" he said. "When is it, now?"

"Sundown," Merlin said. "Day after the battle. Your father is still sending patrols, searching out the last enemy soldiers. There's prisoners being held… more wounded, here in the tent."

"Casualties?" Arthur asked.

"Nineteen," Merlin told him.

"Really?" Arthur asked, astonished.

"Because that's a lot, or not very many at all?" Merlin asked.

"That's a light number, considering," Arthur said. "Gaius always says he's getting too old to accompany my father's campaigns, he needs to train someone younger – but it seems he's outdone himself, here."

"Your sister came," Merlin said.

"Morgana's here?" Arthur was surprised, again.

"I take it she threw rather a fit when you disappeared, and refused to be left behind," Merlin told him. "I heard the words, _shouting match_." There was a lack of interest in the younger boy which to Arthur spoke of overwhelming exhaustion. He tried to picture what the day must have been like for the druid boy in a warlord's camp the day after battle.

"Better her than me," Arthur mumbled. "So she's assisting Gaius?"

"Sort of. Gaius says she hasn't got the patience for medicine, but she's good about some of the nursing duties. She has a lot of energy – it cheers the men up."

Arthur wanted to ask if everyone had been treating Merlin well, but he didn't know quite how, without it becoming awkward. So he said instead, "What have you been doing all day?"

"That's almost exactly what your father said when he came to see you, earlier." Merlin gave him a wan smile. "Gaius told him, your wound should have killed you, so the healing process of it is unprecedented, and should not be rushed. I did a series of spells on you, over the course of the day, and in the meantime Gaius suggested a few things for the other wounded."

"He's pushing you rather hard, isn't he?" Arthur said, in dissatisfaction with the normally compassionate physician's apparently callous use of the boy's power. But Gaius did tend to become forceful and demanding when the health of patients was in question.

"Oh, it's not –" Merlin started, then shut his mouth abruptly.

But Arthur had guessed what he'd almost said. It wasn't by Gaius' choice, then, that Merlin had been pushed to work for the benefit of wounded knights. "My father's idea?" Arthur said, and heard an echo of his own voice, _Make yourself useful_, and winced.

"He's concerned about his men," Merlin mumbled. "It's saving lives – you just said." Arthur snorted at the irony of Merlin defending Arthur's father to him, of the druid boy excusing the Pendragon warlord.

"This doesn't count as sleep, does it?" Arthur guessed.

"It's just as good as," Merlin argued. "Well, almost."

"Go on, you can leave. Get some rest – and I don't care what my father says, you're not responsible for taking care of anyone other than yourself."

"And you," Merlin said with a little smile.

"I'll be here," Arthur reminded him. "I'll see you soon."

Merlin closed his eyes and –

_FLASH_

There was little change in Merlin. His eyes still showed tarnished bronze rather than gleaming gold, his skin like one of Morgana's blue satin feast-day gowns, opaque, with the faintest ripple of a lighter blue over prominent features. Arthur still had the idea that they rested horizontally rather than vertically, but this time Merlin's knees were drawn up just a little, though his head remained at just over Arthur's shoulder-height. His right hand cupped the side of his head awkwardly, the other was wrapped around his middle as if to protect or comfort himself.

"Merlin," Arthur scolded. "What did I say?"

"What?" Merlin said defensively. "I'm fine."

"No, you're not – you look _tired_."

Merlin stared. "What do you mean, I look tired," he said. "Something like that shouldn't show. We have nothing to do with our bodies, here."

"Well –" If it wasn't tired, what was it? Discouraged? Drained of vitality – yes, that was a good description. Arthur wondered if maybe appearance here had more to do with what was inside, an emotional representation? – it was very odd to think he was looking at Merlin's soul. Or that the druid boy was looking at his. "What do I look like to you?" he asked. "I mean, do I look exactly the same as you saw me last – sweaty and dirty and covered in blood?"  
Merlin winced. "No," he said softly. "I mean, we've cleaned you up a little, you know."

"So what do you see when you look at me?" Arthur persisted.

"You're - wearing chainmail, and a red tunic and cape," Merlin said. "I see – a crown. Has your father got a crown?"

"I suppose he's commissioned one," Arthur answered, thinking of the circlet he'd put on briefly in Kilgarrah's cave – surely he hadn't brought that image along with him, had he? "For when he's truly and completely conquered Camelot… But I've never seen it, how could you – what does it look like?"

"It's not beautiful," Merlin said. "It's got a sort of wide crenellated top, and polished knobs for decoration – it's strong. And noble."

Arthur reached up and felt only his hair. Decidedly odd. "What else?" he said.

Merlin gave a little shrug, still keeping his hand cupped over the side of his face. "The rest is just you – clean, of course. Just – hair of sun and gaze of sky. Just you, but like you're standing in front of the sun, maybe. And – there's a sword."

"The one from the treasure chamber?" Arthur asked, looking down and gripping the hilt of the one he could see, himself.

"No. Or – at least – not exactly." He made a noise of thoughtful curiosity. "What about me, then?" Merlin asked. "Still skinny? Messy black hair?"

"Yes," Arthur said. "Only – move your hand away from your ear."

Merlin didn't move, only stared at him with those dull-bronze eyes. So Arthur reached to move his hand – for a single instant he stared aghast at the gory mess of his friend's head, white skin and red blood – he brushed the hair, brittle now rather than glossy, away from his right ear.

There was no blood of course, not here, but there was a _notch_ in the outer edge, where Benley's stone had struck and split Merlin's ear. "What happened?" he said, shocked. His own life-threatening injury had no echo or shadow of itself on his body, now, so why did Merlin's image bear that mark?

"Nothing," Merlin said. "Well – nothing."

"Merlin," Arthur said, ducking close to force the younger boy to look at him. "Please, don't lie to me."

"Okay, then. Something happened, and I don't want to tell you and I don't want to talk about it. Gaius took care of it with a couple of small stitches. It's fine."

"It broke open," Arthur said. "Did you fall?"

"I don't want to talk about it," Merlin muttered.

Arthur was beginning to recognize a stubborn streak in the habitually-agreeable druid boy. It was about time, he thought, that Merlin realized Arthur's capacity for that trait. "If you didn't fall, did someone throw something at you? Did someone hit you?"

"I'm going to leave if you won't quit talking about it," Merlin threatened desperately.

Arthur grinned. "That won't work," he reminded him. "However long you stay away, you'll be back in the blink of an eye for me. You might as well tell me." Merlin's gaze darted to one side, then the other, as if seeking an escape. Arthur said, deliberately provoking him to betray the truth, "Did Gaius hit you?"

Gold flashed briefly. "Never!"

"Did my father?"

Merlin froze; Arthur had his answer. He sighed. "Why don't you go," he suggested. "Get some real sleep, if you're determined to keep spending your magic so."  
"No, I want to stay," Merlin said, even though he sounded exhausted, and he blinked sleepily. And for that to show, _here_…

Arthur considered. "Okay," he said gently. "But if you're going to stay, you're going to have to tell me what's been going on. Start at the beginning, when we were both on the hillside – and don't leave anything out."

**A/N: Merlin's spell is a combination of three used in eps 5.10 "The Kindness of Strangers" and 5.12 "The Diamond of the Day".**


	14. Sleeping Still

**Chapter 14: Sleeping Still**

_Be wary of Dinas Emrys hill_

_The ancient magic sleeping still…_

_Light of fire and light of sun_

_Both become the chosen one._

…..*…..

"_Start at the beginning," Arthur told Merlin, "when we were both on the hillside – and don't leave anything out."_

"Okay," the younger boy said wearily. His eyes dropped shut and he began to speak, his voice sounding at once melodious and monotonous. Arthur frowned for a minute - there were no words clear, how could he – and then he closed his eyes also and… dreamed.

_It was dark, but he could hear Leon's voice. "The boy is breathing. I can't see where he's injured – maybe his head, if he's unconscious. Arthur is… I think Arthur's dead."_

_Light and color flooded his vision. The two knights stood several feet away, conversing quietly, frowning back and down at him. "We have to bring Arthur to his father, anyway," Leon said. "And Gaius will be there."_

_Bedwyr scowled, rubbing the rasp of stubble on his chin. "It's too dangerous right now, we'll have to wait until there's no danger of running into enemy soldiers."_

There was no sense of time passing, but suddenly it was as if _Arthur was walking, holding a weight-bearing pole, a young sapling roughly trimmed. Leon was beside him, holding the other; there seemed to be something wrong with the young knight's outer arm. _

_He looked back and down at a pallet made by rolling two of the poles in the sides of a blanket – he understood, somehow, that Bedwyr had trimmed the poles with his sword while Leon scouted into Vortigern's destroyed camp to scavenge the blankets. A second covered a body riding in the pallet – a body with his face and hair, eyes closed and deathly still. He shivered._

Arthur heard _his father's shout, first of anger at the knights away from their post, then of horrified disbelief at whose body was borne between them. Through Merlin's eyes, he saw not the warlord, but the father, as Uther bent over the pallet. _

_Merlin said, "He's not dead. Sire, he's not dead."_

_Uther looked up, distraught. "Who the hell are you?" he demanded, then turned away without waiting for an answer. "Bedwyr, get him to Gaius – see what can be done for him. Then you have a report to make and I look forward to hearing it." The way he said it was a clear threat._

Again, it seemed no time had passed at all, but _they were indoors, in a way. Billowing white tent material surrounded them, footfalls softened on the grass. Rows of cots stretched away, some of them occupied. An old man in a brown robe turned from one patient, his only reaction to the realization of the identity of the new casualty that one sternly lifted eyebrow. He joined them at a man-sized table of hip height, and bent to examine Arthur's body for signs of life._

"_He's not dead," Merlin said once again._

_Gaius turned the stern look upon him. "Who are you, boy, to tell a physician his job?"_

_A girl came flying down the row between the cots, wearing a boy's shirt over more femininely-fitted boots and trousers, her hair in a black braid bouncing on her back. A look of sheer horror in her green eyes. She screamed, "Arthur!" and Leon turned to catch her, to hold her back._

_Merlin said again, calling to reassure her, "He's not dead!"_

The dream changed, and _Arthur seemed to be lying on his side in the grass, in cool dimness. He squirmed a little, and felt the rough pinch of ropes on his wrists, fastened together in front of him, raised them to feel at his face, identifying the blindfold and gag also. The blindfold was soaked through with tears._

_Some distance away, though the tent material did little to muffle the voices, he heard Uther's raised. "How dare you? Where is your sense of loyalty, Bedwyr?"_

"_My lord," Bedwyr said stoically, "I consider my actions as proving loyalty to yourself and your son both."_

"_You saw that demon-spawn yourself, you heard what he said. He's completely mad; you should have found a way to rid yourself of him immediately! How could you let that filth remain near my son – work unchecked sorcery upon my heir? This is the result – Arthur is dead!"_

"_Sire, the boy is young," Bedwyr answered. "He and your son have been through an ordeal together, is it any wonder that he panicked when you ordered him from Arthur's side? He truly believes that he and he alone –"_

"_And you, Gaius, a man of science and medicine – do you give any credence to that wild tale?"_

"_My lord," Gaius interjected calmly. "If what the boy claims is true, there is a chance that we can still save Arthur."_

"_Save him for what?" Uther spat. "It may be something else inside the body of my son, for all we know – no, he goes nowhere near Arthur."_

_Captive with Merlin in some dark corner, Arthur felt his heart constrict. This must have been what worried Merlin, that he would be prevented from returning to the time and place where Arthur's consciousness was suspended. If they accepted Arthur's death as fact now, what would happen? A funeral pyre – Arthur would be burned alive, or trapped forever with no body to return to… No, that wouldn't happen. Merlin wouldn't let that happen – but he needed Gaius' cooperation to save Arthur's life. And would he be able to fight off an army of knights with orders to kill or exile him and remain with Arthur long enough to bring him back?_

_So much hinged upon belief and acceptance._

"_Leon, what do you think?" Uther asked._

_The briefest of pauses. "My lord, you've heard Sir Bedwyr's story. I heard Arthur myself claim the boy had already once saved his life. I saw with my own eyes that he destroyed the catapult with magic – which routed Vortigern's forces, and so the battle was won."_

"_The battle was won by the knights of Camelot," Uther growled. "Not by magic."_

"_As you say, sire." Leon was nothing if not deferential. "The boy said he spoke to Arthur in the enchanted sleep, that he could wake your son if a physician were to aid in the healing of the wound." Slight hesitation only. "I believe him."  
"If we do nothing, Arthur is as good as dead," Gaius added. "But you can see for yourself, Uther, the body is neither cold nor stiff as would be expected after this long. You lose nothing in the attempt, sire." After a moment of silence, there was the rustling of tent material, a gentle hand pushed the blindfold down. The old physician knelt and spoke to him softly, "My boy, your story is a highly fantastic one. Are you prepared to offer evidence of its truth?"_

Another change. _The sun was warm, the grass soft. Beside him were two large buckets, brimming with water. It was restful, here by the stream, though he could hear the sounds of a large and busy camp somewhere behind him. He could hear, he thought, the sounds of Uther shouting. Again._

_ Knowing that he was experiencing events somehow as Merlin had experienced them, Arthur wasn't surprised that the druid boy jumped to his feet and began to stagger back to the camp with the fresh water he'd been sent for. Keeping his head down and hoping to reach his place in the hospital tent before he was noticed, Merlin – and Arthur – jumped startled at the sudden appearance of the warlord, striding out from between two tents, turned to speak irately to someone over his shoulder. Merlin, weighed down by the full buckets, simply could not move fast enough. _

_ Water splashed from the full bucket, drenching the warlord's left trouser leg entirely. "Stupid boy!" Uther gasped, and his hand flew._

_ There was a brief second to realize that the man had not fully recognized the boy when he'd begun the swing of his hand – another brief second when recognition came – and another to wonder whether that identification resulted in an attempt to stop the blow, or reinforce it with more strength._

_Then the warlord's hand slammed into the right side of Merlin's head, and he tumbled to the ground, his own clothes soaked through as the buckets up-ended. He curled in on himself, raising his hand to protect his ear, which had exploded into fresh agony. He could hear the laughter of men surrounding them, and that hurt even more. _

_Uther's voice sounded again, bitter and contemptuous. "Clumsy fool."_

_ Cutting through the laughter was the high, clear voice of a girl. "Father, how could you? He's only a boy!" He felt a light, comforting hand on his shoulder. "I'm sure he didn't mean to-"_

_ Uther snarled, "In Camelot we teach our boys to look where they're going!"_

_ He felt vibrations in the ground as the men stomped away again._

_ "Are you all right?" Morgana asked._

_ "I'm fine," Merlin mumbled. "Spilled the water."_

_ "Forget the water," Morgana said impatiently, knocking the bucket away from his fumbling attempt to grasp the handle. "Let me see – oh, your ear is bleeding! I'm so sorry, my father… Never mind." It was odd for Arthur to see such compassion on his sister's face; he was quite sure he'd never been the recipient of such tender consideration from her. But then again, he was the older brother… "You were on your way to Gaius anyway, weren't you?" Morgana added. "Come on, let's go."_

Arthur wasn't sure he wanted to see anymore, but found that _later, Merlin had curled up on the grass in the hospital tent, so close to one of the cots that he was nearly underneath it, on his left side, facing away from the cot. It was late night, apparently, the air dimly lit with strategically placed braziers._

_ He heard footfalls, and flinched with Merlin as a knight's boots stopped next to him. The owner paused, then seated himself awkwardly and slowly, cross-legged on the grass next to the druid boy._

_ "I heard what happened," Leon said. "Are you all right?"_

_ Merlin didn't move. "Gaius put a couple of stitches in it."_

_ Leon made a noise of approval. "You've been keeping pretty scarce; I haven't seen more than a glimpse of you, coming or going."_

_ "My place is here." Merlin reached up without looking and his hand found the still, cool hand of the man on the cot above him, right at the edge._

_ "He'll be fine." Leon's voice was almost sure. "You'll be fine. The Pendragon is one hell of a warlord, you know. Suspicion and ruthlessness have kept him and a lot of us alive a long time, and have won victories. Vortigern was the last, did you know that? There will be a king of Camelot. Stability and peace – and you helped with that."_

_ Merlin said, "Arthur's going to make a better king."_

_ Leon huffed, but smiled, and didn't disagree. "Gaius has been very kind to you – when he remembers to be. It's been very busy – for everyone. Morgana will no doubt want to adopt you one of these days."_

_ Merlin made a noise that was meant to convey amusement, but Leon bent sideways to look more closely at him, then reached to shuffle a hand through his hair. "Hey, it's okay," he said. "Do you need anything right now? Can I get you something?"_

_ Merlin said, in a voice so young and small that it nearly broke Arthur's heart, "I want to go home." _

_Arthur realized that, but for him – his healing wound, his situation here in-between time – Merlin would already have been able to leave. It was probably extremely selfish of him, but he wasn't sure he wanted the younger boy pushed to hurry the healing – for either of their sakes._

_ Leon said, "Ah. You have family waiting for you? In one of the druids' camps?"_

_ "My mother." The words, the tone, made Arthur miss his own mother, whom he'd never even met._

_ Leon gathered his legs under him again in preparation to rise. "Get some sleep – it's almost midnight."_

_ "I know."_

Arthur opened his eyes as Merlin sighed. Did Merlin even realize what he'd just done? He remembered Kilgarrah saying something about a connection with the dragonlords, knowing a little of what happened to them – and so that connection had worked for him and Merlin, also.

"So there you have it," the younger boy said. He opened his eyes to look at Arthur, and the bronze seemed to have lightened somewhat toward gold. "How was your day?" he asked, with the first hint of humor he'd shown for a while.

Arthur tried to answer in kind. "Oh, you know," he said. "Just lying around. Listen, you've been here a while – why don't you go on and get some sleep. I'll be here."

Merlin's lips quirked in a smile. "I'll see you soon."

_ FLASH_

This time, Arthur was sure there was some improvement. The inner light once again shone through Merlin's sapphire skin, though it was a lone candle rather than the torch it had seemed initially. His eyes were still more bronze than gold, but a gleaming, burnished bronze. He seemed more alert, too.

"Good morning," Arthur greeted him sarcastically.

"Good evening, rather," Merlin responded with matching impudence. "Sundown."

"And I've been here –"

"Three days. Well, three and a half, now."

It was such an odd thing to hear as truth – to Arthur's perception, it seemed mere hours. He wasn't any more tired, or hungry, or thirsty, than when he'd opened his eyes to the yellow-white light. "How goes it in the waking world, then?" he said.

"It goes," Merlin said, shrugging. "Your father came to see you this morning, and Gaius said – there's noticeable improvement in your wound."

"Oh, good," Arthur said involuntarily. It wasn't a selfish reaction – well, not entirely – but substantial proof for his father that Merlin's efforts were successful. Those rumors, he knew, would circulate through the camp – knights were gossipy as girls, in camp and having no immediate conflict to deal with. He hoped that made things easier on the druid boy, helped him establish a bit of a reputation, earn some respect, however grudgingly, from the men. He wished, not for the first time, that he could be physically present to look out for Merlin, but then again, if that were possible, Merlin wouldn't have to stay.

"Gaius said to tell you keep your chin up, you'll be well and strong again in no time." Merlin stepped sideways to Arthur and let himself flop back – then hung comfortably suspended in midair, his long skinny limbs at once awkward and graceful. "_No time_ means by the end of the week, I hope."

Arthur turned as Merlin had done and – though there were no muscles or bones keeping him upright – let himself sink back also, into a sitting position. He'd once spent a morning with a gaggle of boys outside the lower town, jumping from a barn roof onto a haystack – until he'd been caught and hauled into his father's presence for a reprimand. It was a similar sensation, if the cushioning substance had been cloud, rather than straw.

"By the end of the week, then," Arthur said. But the time was passing in fits and spurts for him – he wasn't sure whether he was ready to face his father. And then what about Merlin?  
"But it'll seem like no time for you, in any case, right?" the younger boy said, with a happy smile. "Many of the wounded have recovered enough to return to light duty, or to be sent back to Camelot to continue convalescence. A caravan set out this morning."

Half as many knights in camp probably meant the druid boy felt half again more comfortable. "How's everyone else?" Arthur asked.

"Your father went out with half a dozen men at first light," Merlin told him. "Hunting trip. So everyone is anticipating something of a feast – at least getting to eat something that hasn't been sitting in a supply wagon for days on end. Sir Ethan and Sir Pellinore went with the caravan; Sir Bedwyr was with the hunting party, and Sir Owen is helping guard some of the prisoners. I think your sister appropriated one of the dray-horses to go riding this morning."

"And you?" Arthur said, beginning to understand why Merlin's appearance here had improved. Some of the worry and tension had gone from the younger boy's physical situation, and Merlin seemed the type to wear his heart on his sleeve, anyway.

"Gaius let me sleep, this morning," he said. "And this afternoon, he made your sister take charge of the hospital tent, and took me into the woods to restock his herb supply. It's fascinating – he knows so much about the medicinal uses of every single plant –"

Arthur thought, _then why isn't he _glowing_ blue and gold?_ "Sounds like fun," he said insincerely. "But… you've got something else on your mind."

Merlin put a hand to his neck, seeking the cord and finding the silver dragon charm. "Magic," he said. "And –" He shook his head, a wrinkle appearing between his eyes. "And death." He sighed, dropping the pendant to bounce against his chest, and rubbing his hands over his face. "I came here, because it made sense to me, that twelve people should not die if I could prevent it. I thought, then, that if Camelot knew Vortigern could have his tower, that there was a dragon also to face, that it would be enough to prevent a battle. I never wanted anyone to be hurt."

"The battle was always out of our hands," Arthur said. "You know that, right?"

"My mother always told me," he said slowly, pushing his hands into his hair and turning his face slightly toward Arthur, "Be careful what you use it for. The druids teach – never for violence. But…" He leaned forward, and they drifted fractionally closer together. "It seems to me, that anyone has a right to protect themselves – and anyone else, people they love, people who are weaker, right?"

"It's part of the knights' code," Arthur told him, not really sure what Merlin was getting at. Why, his own father often said – and then he realized. Merlin didn't have a father. Teachers, maybe, other examples of manhood among the druids to examine and emulate, but not a _father_. "I mean, defense of the weak and innocent is required of a knight."

Merlin wasn't reassured. "What happens when you go to defend yourself, or someone else, but it's not a fair fight?" he asked.

"I don't know what you mean?" Arthur felt a frown coming to his own face, now. "My sparring instructor says, you won't always face your equal on the battlefield, there will always be someone bigger, faster, stronger, smarter… Merlin, what is it that's bothering you?"

"In the druid camp," Merlin said, "there was one man who hated me, who – well, he did a lot of things. It was complicated. But at least I knew what I could do, and what I couldn't – mostly I just ran away. I mean, it was never as though my life was in danger. Or anyone else's."

_Alvarr_, Arthur thought. _Someday he's going to have to tell me_ –

"And then when those two guards, in the cave…" Merlin shuddered. "I didn't use magic, only a little when you were coming, to make sure he couldn't use the sling on you. But when we went up Dinas Emrys, there was a man… and then, when you fell, I… I was so angry, I didn't care… I don't even know how many soldiers were there, between us and the fire, but…"

They were quite close, now, both had crossed their legs and hunched forward over them. Merlin was looking off to the side, his eyes a haunted copper. Arthur vaguely recalled the sword in Merlin's hand being thrust through the enemy's body; he recalled with more disturbing clarity the moments when a soldier had met death at _his_ hand.

"I killed them," Merlin whispered. "All the enemies, all at once. And – it was _easy_. And – I was _glad_ to do it." A tear rolled down his cheek. "How – how do you do it? How do you forget? Am I a monster?"

"Stop it," Arthur said sternly. There was nothing beneath him – no straw no cloud no ground – but he scooted closer to the younger boy and slung an arm around his shoulder. "You're not. I'm alive because of you, and Leon and Bedwyr, right? You're a fighter, a warrior. You didn't start this fight – you did everything you could to stop it – and you defended yourself and your friends."

"But I didn't," Merlin said. Arthur could feel him shaking, and the white shimmer had disappeared from his skin. "What I did, it was _so much_ magic, Arthur. But – it still wasn't _everything_. Do you understand? I have all this power to do something with, but I don't know how to decide what it is I should do!"

Arthur was quiet. He'd had similar worries himself, in considering the possibility of a position of authority in the kingdom. "A king has councilors for a reason," he told Merlin. "Remember what Kilgarrah said – we have a lot to do, evidently, someday, but we can do it together. You're never alone." Merlin gave him a grateful glance, a flash of reassuring gold, and Arthur remembered the younger boy crying as he lay tied up in a corner of someone's tent, blindfolded and gagged, allowing every second of that treatment so he'd have the chance to finish saving Arthur. "You know what, I find I'm not that worried about what you might decide to do with your magic. I trust you, Merlin."

"And I trust you," Merlin responded, "to call me an idiot if I'm being one, okay?"

"Not a problem." Arthur grinned. "Has my father been asking you hard questions about anything that's happened?"

Merlin shook his head. "I know he talked to Sir Bedwyr and Sir Leon, but mostly he just ignores me. I think maybe –" he hesitated briefly – "he wouldn't trust anything I said, anyway."

"Did Leon tell him about Kilgarrah?"

Another flash of gold as Merlin's eyes met his. "No has said anything about dragons that I've heard."

"Not even Gaius?" Merlin shook his head. Arthur took a deep breath, unnecessary here except for mental determination. "My father will want to know every detail," he told the younger boy. "And I won't lie to him like I did to Sir Bedwyr. After you wake me up, I can probably ask for a day or so of rest before I make an official report, and Gaius will support me. I want you to be long gone by then. Leave as soon as you can."

There was nothing around them to look at, but Merlin turned his head enough so that Arthur could no longer see his face, in the attitude of one staring into the distance. Arthur re-thought his words and started to worry that his friend had misinterpreted his intention.

"No," Merlin said softly, still turned away. "Thank you, but no. I'm willing to wait for you, but – Kilgarrah's not going to hide. I can't, either."

"You don't understand." Quick as thought, Arthur seemed to be on his feet again, and facing his friend. "You don't know my father – he's determined to be king, to have the highest authority, the final say. And he's a good man, he wants to protect the people, provide justice and defense and make Camelot prosperous and happy – but he's not a man to accept a dragon on his border, over-looking his trade route calmly. He'll want Kilgarrah dead – and you, once he knows you're a dragonlord."

"We might give him the chance to agree," Merlin suggested, in the same manner of quiet calm. "You know you don't have to worry about me. I'm not going to let anyone kill me. That includes your father."

"That's really not reassuring," Arthur grumbled. "Assassins take people by surprise all the time."

"We have a few days," Merlin said. "I can talk to Kilgarrah – probably he has his own plan for dealing with your father."

Arthur snorted. "Let's hope it doesn't include breathing fire."

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

Merlin was deliberately dawdling by the stream. It lacked an hour or two until sundown, and the knights' camp, now shrunk to a fraction of what it had been, little more than a guard for the warlord and his son, was still industriously occupied. Dinner would not be served until after the natural light faded.

He'd become something of an unofficial errand-boy for the camp. When he wasn't acting as Gaius' third hand or keeping watch on Arthur, he fetched and carried things like water or firewood for whomever didn't fear the contaminating touch of a druid. Once he'd helped with the laundry, once he'd spent an evening in the cook's tent after dinner with his arms wet and soapy to the elbows cleaning dishes.

He sighed, rubbing his bare feet in the dust, trying to pick it up between his toes before spreading them to watch it cascade down again. He rather wished he could stay with Arthur, but the older boy was right – Uther Pendragon would be furious to find that the druid boy he'd tolerated for the sake of his son's life was also a dragonlord. Best if Merlin kept as far out of sight and out of mind as possible, and hope that Uther would come to accept that he wasn't a threat.

There would be no repetition of his loss of control at the burning of the catapults. Defense he thought he could manage, with magic, the sort of assured safety in retreat he was more used to employing against Alvarr. But to attack with magic – he shuddered and firmed his jaw. It shouldn't be done. _That_ was what made a man a monster.

The sun dipped down toward the horizon, west behind the camp, west where a day's journey would bring him to the clan and his mother. There he would not fit, either. Not after this battle. Not with two dragons in his mind and on his heart.

Tonight he'd rather hoped to spend the moment of sundown by himself at the stream, then visit Arthur for a midnight chat. He always felt much better after talking to the older boy. His knight's training, and his special position as the only son of the man who aspired to the throne, gave him a peculiar understanding of Merlin's position, something not Gilli, nor Hunith, nor even Iseldir could ever comprehend entirely.

"Merlin!" Someone shouted for him, but the call came from too far for him to recognize the owner of the voice.

He stood in response, lifting the two water buckets for the night supply in the hospital tent. Aside from Arthur, there were only five men in residence, each with an illness or injury that had befallen them after the battle. Uther had been unrelenting about using his magic for life-threatening or crippling injuries, but for all else, he'd forbidden Merlin from the use of magic on his men. He was lucky that the meditative state he entered to speak to Arthur mimicked sleeping so well.

Merlin made his way slowly between the tents in answer to the call, shuffling still barefoot through the grass, his boots tied together and slung over one shoulder. His shirtsleeves were rolled to his elbows to keep them dry for the chore; it was a little odd to be walking thus exposed among the knights of Camelot, but everyone knew by now.

He hadn't made any friends this week – not that he'd expected to, not among these men – but he'd gotten familiar enough with faces to know who'd give him a cordial nod or smile of thanks, who would ignore him completely, and the handful of those who actively held his magic against him. Maybe it was the old prejudice against druids, maybe it was because of the uncertainty of Arthur Pendragon's situation, but he'd learned whose way he needed to keep out of. Starting with the warlord himself; and he'd done a decent job, he thought. Uther hadn't so much as laid eyes on him the past three days.

He squinted up into the setting sun, toward the hospital tent at the top of the rise. Two figures he could make out by the tent flap, held back with rope tie, but not who it was.

"Merlin?"

The voice shocked him. Familiar and loved and completely unexpected. He set the two water buckets down unsteadily, let his boots drop. He opened his mouth on the cry of his heart, _Mama_! but nothing came out. Instead, he stepped forward, and it was Hunith who ran the last few steps to throw her arms around him. He tightened his grip and buried his face in her shoulder. And it was the smell of her – soap and stew and grass and sunshine and _mama_ – that brought the tears to his eyes.

"I knew," Leon's voice said, amused compassion; he was the second figure, then, "I could figure out something you needed." Merlin freed one hand to wave blindly, and the knight caught it briefly so he could squeeze his thanks.

"Oh, Merlin," his mother said, smoothing the hair down the back of his head. She pulled away, lifting her other hand to turn his face for an inspection of the bruising that remained, and clicked her tongue in disapproval. "Have you been fighting?" she said.

An incredulous sob wrenched itself from his chest, but he swallowed and nodded. "Yes, Mum – I guess I have." He looked over her shoulder at Leon, who gave him a smile and nod. He hadn't told her everything; that would be Merlin's choice of if and when. He appreciated that. He looked down at his mother. "When did you arrive?" he asked.

"Just a bit ago. Sir Leon has been very kind, and I've met Gaius and the Lady Morgana."

Merlin smiled at her. "Would you like to meet Arthur?" he asked, taking her by the hand to lead her into the hospital tent as he used to lead her to the birds' nests he discovered when he was very young.

Once Gaius was sufficiently satisfied with the state of Arthur's wound, the progress of healing accomplished, the older boy's body had been shifted from the treatment table to the nearest cot. Merlin had gotten used to the stillness and pallor, himself, but his mother gasped when she saw Arthur.

"Oh, Merlin, is he –"

He hadn't said it for awhile now, and this time he smiled. "He's not dead. I've done magic, Mum, to keep him alive while Gaius guided me in the healing spells for his wound." Merlin knelt by the cot and moved the blanket, shifted Arthur's arm away from his side to balance across his own bent knees, then rolled up the hem of the clean shirt they'd put on the older boy.

The skin was clean, unbruised. The last remaining external evidence of the gaping gash in Arthur's side was a thick scar stretching from a point just to the side and down from his hipbone, almost to his navel. Merlin was quite proud of it, the magic had been complex and difficult and had often left even Gaius worn and short-tempered. The last two days had been repetitions of spellwork meant to heal and regulate and perfect all internal functions that had been damaged, and tomorrow, Gaius had said, they would see what could be done about the scar.

The others didn't share his perspective.

Leon said explosively, "Damn!" and then apologized to his mother.

Hunith took no notice of the knight behind her. She perched on the edge of the cot by Arthur's knee, and rested a hand on Merlin's shoulder. "You've saved his life?" she said. Her voice sounded strange to Merlin, he couldn't tell whether she was proud of his accomplishment, or found it too difficult to believe. He looked at her, and tears were shining in her eyes. "Your father's magic was strong," she whispered, "but never for healing – and never anything like this."

He whispered back, even knowing it was impossible, "I wish I could have been there."

Her smile was happy and proud, and she smoothed his hair again. He found he didn't mind so much, anymore. Merlin looked back at Arthur; he couldn't help tracing the scar that he knew now as well as the back of his own hand. The pale coolness no longer bothered him, nor the absence of a pulse, nor the lack of the rise and fall of breathing.

"All that remains," he said, "is to call his spirit back from between-times, and then – he should be fine."

"All that remains, eh?"

Merlin leaped to his feet, spinning. His reaction was enough to alert his mother; and they both faced the warlord, ducking to enter the tent with his daughter trailing him. He wanted with all his being to squeeze his body between Uther Pendragon and his mother, but there wasn't enough room – he'd have to step over or on the next cot to do so.

"My lord." Hunith made a polite little bow. Morgana peeked around Uther's elbow with a friendly smile for them both.

"Sire." That was Gaius' voice, redirecting the warlord's attention to the old physician, hurrying toward them from the other entrance at the far end of the near-empty tent.

"Gaius." Uther Pendragon answered with lazy condescension. "The boy claims Arthur is ready to awake."

Gaius turned a stern look upon Merlin, who attempted with a pleading look both to contradict the accusation, and avoid the warlord's notice of the contradiction. "In theory he is correct, my lord," the old man said. "Arthur's body is fully healed. However–"

"Good. Then I think we have waited long enough for the promised miracle." The Pendragon turned his glare on Merlin.

His stomach dropped to his feet. Midnight, he'd assumed, at the time when magic ran highest, and only Gaius there if the attempt should prove initially unsuccessful. This was the part he wasn't sure about – Kilgarrah's spell had contained the wakening triggered by outside events, the fulfillment of prophecy drawing close. Aithusa waited for his dragonlord's call of his name. But he'd said _Arthur_ plenty of times this week, with no result. And they couldn't wait any longer, anymore.

"Sire, if we wait for midnight, perhaps –"

"I am done waiting, Gaius," Uther said in a voice as soft and smooth as steel. "I want to be sure my son does not lie under the control of a sorcerer any longer than is necessary."

Hunith reached behind her for Merlin's hand. Unseen by her father, Morgana grimaced; Leon was impassive. The old physician bowed his head briefly in acquiescence, then spread his hands. "As you wish – ladies, my lord, Sir Knight, if you would please give us some space to work." He turned to draw a screen into place that shielded the group in Arthur's corner from the rest of the tent.

The other four stepped back, Leon between Hunith and Morgana, wide-eyed and pale as Merlin felt, but with an excitement that to him felt more like nausea. Uther on her other side, hands on his hips, like a threatening thundercloud.

When Gaius turned back to Merlin, he said in an undertone, "I'm not sure I can do this." He felt trembly-scared. "What if I make a mistake? What if I already have made a mistake, and something's not right with the wound and what if Uther –"

"Calm down, boy," Gaius said, not unkindly. He put his hands on Merlin's shoulders. "I have seen you do magic that no one person of any age should be able to accomplish. The strength is there. The ability is there, I do not doubt. You must trust yourself; and feel the solution. Fortify your will, and the magic must obey."

Merlin nodded, feeling light-headed. His mouth was dry. The moment of sundown, he felt, drew near; he could use that guide. He knelt next to Arthur's cot, closed his eyes to center and calm his emotions, then began to speak the words of the incantation. "_Aet Dinas Emrys brynig stadol_…" He stopped.

Gaius said, "What is it?"

Merlin shook his head. "It's not going to be enough."

**A/N: Merlin's spell is my own (attempt at a) translation of "At Dinas Emrys fiery core…"**


	15. Both Become

**Chapter 14: Both Become**

_Lord's true key in plainest sight_

_Becoming prince set all aright…_

_Light of fire and light of sun_

_Both become the chosen one._

…..*…..

_Merlin shook his head. "It's not going to be enough."_

He added, "I'm going to have to go to him, lead him out."

Strengthen the spell, any way possible, strengthen their connection, his instincts told him. Arthur's spirit was set to leave him anyway, when he'd accomplished the enchantment a week ago. But how to reverse it, now? Blood magic, he thought. His blood on his hand to open the dragon's cave. Arthur's blood on his hand from the wound in his side, as he led him to his trapped moment of safety. He thought of Arthur, staring fascinated at the residue of Merlin's blue-lit magelight on his palm – that touch on Merlin's heart.

"Your knife, please, Gaius?" he said.

The old physician untucked the tiny, sharp-bladed silver knife he used in chopping and measuring herbs. Uther took one step forward, and when Merlin placed the point on his own wrist, Hunith did the same. Gaius stood to hold them all back. _Give him space_. _Give him air, give him strength_… the sun was more than halfway through the horizon, now.

He pushed the tip of the knife through the tiny healing mark left by Kilgarrah's claw, ignoring the twinge of pain. Blood immediately welled up on his skin.

But it was Arthur's hand he lifted, pale and limp and lifeless, to coat palm and fingers in the thick red substance of his life, bright with the power of his magic. He heard Morgana make a noise of shock, heard Uther growl some threat and Gaius answer to calm him. He placed Arthur's hand carefully on the cot so the blood wouldn't rub off, and turned to take his place on the next cot.

There were seconds, only, before the last crescent of the sun vanished behind the western horizon. As he laid himself down, he felt Gaius take his hand and begin to wrap the bleeding cut on his wrist.

He sank through the blackness of consciousness, seeking that brilliant glow of forever noon where Arthur waited. He approached the radiance and raised one hand to part the veil that allowed him temporary entrance to the spirit of his friend, pausing only slightly at the odd shimmer of his skin. That was a detail he hadn't told anyone. He hadn't wanted to hear why his bodily manifestation in Arthur's sleeping mind was _blue_ of all things. Arthur hadn't seemed to notice anything amiss; Merlin hoped he simply looked like himself to the older boy – a scrawny druid, not some alien creature of magic.

"Well, that was fast," Arthur joked, both of them knowing by now that the older boy's perception of time ceased to exist when Merlin wasn't there. As far as Arthur was concerned, Merlin's last visit had ended only a few seconds earlier.

Merlin smiled at him, relaxing into that light-hearted, undemanding camaraderie that came so easily now around his friend. "It's time," he said, half serious and half teasing. "Your body is healed – well, except for the scarring, and I can probably do that later, if your father lets me." He felt his smile widen. "Are you ready to go home?"

To his surprise, Arthur hesitated. "I'm ready to wake up," he said. "But to go home…" He shook his head. "So much has changed. Not there of course – it's me that's changed."

Merlin knew what he meant. He had no intention of rejoining the druid camp, but Arthur did not have such a choice. "For the better," he told the older boy confidently.

Arthur huffed. "Glad you think so. But, Merlin…"

He understood this feeling, too. "It's not goodbye. I mean, I'm in the cot next to yours, after all. It's just –"

"See you soon?" Arthur suggested, his smile pulled familiarly sideways, the glow of this place seeming to splash in rays around him, gleaming from the chainmail, haloing the red knight's cape, shining from the crown on the blonde head.

"Put up your hand," Merlin instructed, lifting his blue left hand to face Arthur, who reluctantly mirrored the gesture. Merlin moved closer, matching the older boy's hand, palm to palm, fingers to fingers. Arthur's hand was just a little the bigger, but Merlin's fingers were long, and just about reached the ends of Arthur's.

"We're holding hands again?" Arthur's voice dripped a sarcasm that somehow drew Merlin closer rather than pushing him away.

"I won't tell if you won't," he said. "Now, it may help to close your eyes. And relax."

"Hells, Merlin, how can I get any _more_ relaxed?" But Arthur's eyes dropped shut.

Merlin began the incantation again, "_Aet Dinas Emrys brynig stadhol_… At Dinas Emrys fiery core, the ancient magic sleeps no more…"

He stepped back, careful not to break the contact, and Arthur instinctively followed with a step forward, his eyes still trustingly closed.

"The blood was spilt the price was paid, in time of magic death was stayed… Healed within the high noon light, becoming prince was made aright…"

Merlin reached the veil, still stepping backwards, and began to feel a warm slickness between their hands. Sweat – or blood? His retreat became a breath quicker, Arthur leaning into the contact to keep up.

"The kin of magic's soul all spared, finished journey thus prepared…"

The golden swirl of noon was left behind. Time began again with the heavy thump of a long-quiet heart.

"Keep the hope await the king…" The heel of his hand began to peel away from Arthur's, as his spirit knew its way home, followed a repeated path. Merlin whispered the last words, "Once and future peace will bring."

_Thump_. Arthur struggled forward – only their fingers touched. _Thump_.

"Merlin!" He heard the older boy's desperate cry. "I can't see you! Are you there?" Now only their fingertips.

_Thump_.

_Come, now, just as in the cave. Trust me, I will not guide you wrong. Follow._

Thump.

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

"Merlin!" Arthur tried to cry out, in pain and fear at the unusually lethargic feeling in his chest. His heart pounded like a drum – deliberate and slow and heavy, and he fought to fill his lungs, as if he had only just fallen and knocked the air out. "I can't see you! Are you there?"

"Open your eyes, Arthur." It wasn't Merlin's voice. It was familiar, though, the voice of someone who loved him, who showed it through a strict impatience. A voice he was used to obeying since the first moment of babyish understanding.

His eyelids dragged upward. The light was much dimmer here, and less clean, somehow. There was a large shadow hovering over him, a halo of white hair. It took a moment for his eyes to focus. "Gaius," he breathed. His throat felt creaky and dry.

Arthur heard other voices say his name, and Gaius lifted his head to warn, "Just a moment, if you please." He felt the old physician feeling for his pulse, raising his unresponsive eyelids to check his reaction to the light, touching his head to gauge any rise in temperature. He tried to ask after Merlin, and Gaius met his gaze with a brief, compassionate nod. It wasn't an answer, but it was enough to delay his concern. Then he said to the others present, "Not all at once. Take it slowly, and quietly, for Arthur's sake."

Gaius moved back, and Arthur's eyes took in the shadowed canvas overhead. Tent. Hospital tent, as Merlin had said. And beneath him – without moving, he could feel the forces of gravity pressing him into the sagging material of the cot. He felt stiff and tired, but tired of sleeping, too. He wanted to yawn and rub his eyes.

Gaius' place was taken by his father – square-jawed and severe, clenching his jaw as if in anger – but there was a suspicious brightness shining in his gray eyes. "Arthur," he said. His voice sounded of controlled relief. He leaned a little closer, his scrutiny keen. He said, swift and hard, "No man is worth –"

Arthur responded automatically, even if his voice was husky coming from this body, "Your tears."

Uther's smile was more triumphant than loving, but Arthur knew his father, knew that for him it was near enough the same thing. "You _are_ back with us," his father said. Arthur didn't know what to say, but Uther didn't need that. "You just rest, son, everything will be taken care of. We'll talk when you're stronger, and soon we'll be home in Camelot."

As his father rose, Arthur tried to say, "I'm glad to see you," knowing his father had fought in the battle as well. But it didn't come out in time, and it was a meaningless mumble as Uther drew Gaius aside, beyond where Arthur's words had the strength to reach.

Morgana took their father's place with a rush. In spite of the twinkle in her green eyes and the teasing smile, she looked paler than she usually did. "Arthur, you big idiot!" she said, punching his shoulder lightly. "I told you not to come." He managed a grin and the twitch of a shrug.

There was movement above and behind her, and Arthur tracked another person, taller and broader of shoulder, and focused on Leon taking a place at the foot of the bed. His smile was wide and genuine. "We were worried about you," the young knight said. "You look amazingly well for a man who's been dead for a week, now." Arthur huffed weakly, still smiling.

"Yes, and you've a gorgeous scar now to show for it," Morgana said, grimacing cheerfully. "Looks like someone tried to chop you in half."

"Morgana!" Uther said sharply, and she glanced up.

"Okay, I'll see you tomorrow, all right?" she told Arthur, rising to leave.

Leon followed her, pausing to slap Arthur's shin gently. "You're too young for it, yet, but when the men start buying rounds for the one with the worst scar and the best story, remind me never to go drinking with you."

Scar? "Oh, but Merlin said…" Again, he was too slow to more than mumble as Leon stepped away. Behind the head of his cot, Arthur heard soft voices – Gaius and a woman, he thought.

How bad was it? He shifted on his cot, and could feel the slightest pulling on the skin of his abdomen. Probably Gaius would advise him to rub all kinds of foul-smelling ointments into it, as he did for the knights with the worst scars. But those men were all grizzled veterans, who walked with limps or could no longer use their left arms, or complained about aches when it rained. Had he become one of the old men already?

He lifted his head off the flat pillow, moving his hands to pull on the blanket, on the shirt, to see for himself. But stopped, blinking confusedly at his right hand, awash in sticky red.

There wasn't supposed to be blood – his wound was supposed to be completely healed. "Gaius?" he said, as loudly as he could. The old man appeared with a camp-stool which he positioned at Arthur's side, and a dish of water with a cloth already swimming in it. "It's not mine?" he asked his old friend uncertainly, holding out his hand.

"No." Gaius took it in his own, using the soaked cloth to begin to wipe the blood off his skin, just as Arthur had done for Merlin what seemed like only yesterday evening. As he rinsed the cloth in the water, Arthur rubbed the water-thinned fluid between thumb and fingers. Then the old man added, "It's Merlin's."

Arthur bolted upright, feeling like he'd just been punched in the gut by a gloved fist. No, in the right side. "Merlin!" he said, staring at the red stain dripping wetly to the grass. "What happened? Where is he?"

"He's – sleeping." There was a slight hesitation between the words. Gaius continued washing Arthur's hand, eyes on his task, but he inclined his head to the side as he did so, and Arthur twisted, awkwardly and stiffly.

And came face to face with a woman in a plain dress, her hair covered by a faded green scarf. Neither pretty nor ugly, she was completely unremarkable but for the depth of compassion and serenity in her eyes. "My lord," she said, her smile cheering as he looked at her, dazed. "I am glad to see you restored."

"I'm sorry," he said stupidly. "I don't know who you are."

"I'm Hunith," she said. He could see that she understood his situation – not a complete stranger, then – and therefore didn't hold his confusion against him.

"Arthur, lie down, please," Gaius ordered him, pushing one shoulder gently. "Hunith is Merlin's mother. Sir Leon brought her from the druid camp; they arrived just this afternoon."

Arthur couldn't have kept upright if he'd tried, but as he sank back, Merlin came into his view, lying on the cot on Hunith's other side. His face was turned toward Arthur, his eyes shut, his smile faint but definite. Arthur relaxed onto his pillow, his head still craned to keep the younger boy in his sight. "He's all right, isn't he?" he questioned.

"The magic he performed was considerable," Gaius said. "And as always, he needs to rest. There's no need to worry, Arthur, I have observed that such temporary weariness is not unusual for him."

Arthur opened his mouth to argue with the old man, but remembered Merlin's collapse after opening the tunnel door and facing the dragon, his exhaustion after opening the hillside. "Will it last long?" he asked.

"Not long. But Arthur – you should rest, too. Your body and mind have been severely strained, also." Even as the old physician spoke, Arthur found his eyes were dropping shut.

Hunith leaned forward to brush his hair off his forehead, and her motherly gesture touched more than his skin.

"Thank you," he whispered to her. He felt a vague foolishness – she wouldn't know what he meant – but she gave him a smile with pride in it, that deepened when she tipped her head to gaze at her sleeping son.

It seemed but a moment – though the only source of light in otherwise absolute darkness was now the huddle of thick white candles on the table - until Gaius was urging him to open his eyes again, instructing and aiding him to sit, promising broth and bread. At the mention of dinner, his stomach growled, and he swung shaky legs over the side of his cot – toward Merlin, who was also stirring and blinking, his mother's hand on his shoulder as she leaned to whisper in his ear.

The younger boy sat straight up, a wide grin lighting his face as his eyes met Arthur's. "You're back!" he exclaimed softly. "You look great!"

"I feel terrible," Arthur complained.

"You would have felt worse if you'd woken any sooner," Gaius said, showing his concern with a pretended lack of sympathy. "But with a good night's sleep and a healthy breakfast, you may be able to go riding with Morgana tomorrow."

Arthur groaned at the thought, as he accepted the bowl of broth and the small crusty roll to dip into it. But when Merlin's mother rounded the cot to hand the younger boy his share of the meal, he took it awkwardly in his right hand, then balanced it on his bony knees to dip his bread one-handed. Arthur looked, and saw that Merlin's left hand was bandaged, fingertips to wrist.

"What happened to you?" he asked, gesturing at the bandage with his roll. The broth was not too hot, the bread fresh – he was perfectly content with life, here and now.

Merlin made a face. "Side effect of the spell," he said. "Probably there's a better way for it, but –" he shrugged leaning forward over his bowl. "It worked." He crammed the bread into his mouth. At his side, the bandaged hand trembled slightly, unnoticed by the boy.

A side effect of the spell. Arthur opened his mouth to demand further explanation, and remembered. Merlin matching their hands together, to lead him out of the halted light of perpetual noon. Gaius washing Merlin's blood from his hand – he swallowed hard.

As his father's son, he'd understood from an early age that the knights would be required to protect him at all costs, taking injuries, even accepting their own death to prevent his. But they had sworn to that duty, had chosen it and accepted that possibility when they entered the training for his father's service. They were paid for it.

None of that was true for Merlin. Barely old enough to start training as a squire, he'd been repaid for the strength of his magic, the use of his gift, in more pain inflicted, more humiliation.

Merlin tipped his bowl to slurp the broth, and glanced up with a grin at his mother's exasperated but gentle admonition.

"How bad is it?" Arthur focused deliberately on his meal again.

"Not too bad – Gaius wanted one more day to do something about the scar, but-"

"No, I mean your hand."

Merlin flexed it clumsily inside its wrappings. "It's fine," he said. "I've gotten worse scrapes climbing trees."

"You know…" Arthur tried to put a smile on, to lighten what he knew he had to say. "You know I'm never going to be able to thank you properly for this."

"For the soup?" Merlin said impudently, deliberately misunderstanding him. "Because I had nothing to do with that, didn't make it, didn't bring it to you –"

Arthur kicked the younger boy's ankle, almost hard enough to make him spill the bowl of broth balanced precariously. "Shut up," he said. "You know what I meant."

"You know you don't have to," Merlin said, giving him a quizzical look. "Thank me, I mean."

"Well, that's a relief," Arthur said. "I'll make a note of that – don't bother using manners on Merlin."

"Not," Merlin added, "that you had any to start with."

"Of course I have manners –" Arthur began.

"Bad ones." Merlin's humor was surprisingly fast and sharp, but the twinkle in his eye made it almost seem a privilege to be on the receiving end.

He grinned back. "It still counts. Hey," he added, sobering. "Thank you."

Merlin's smile was so wide that boyish dimples showed as he ducked his head in acknowledgement. _I am_, Arthur thought regretfully, _going to miss that smile_.

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

Merlin woke to voices raised in argument. He recognized both, but couldn't, in the first bleary awareness, reconcile that the two would be arguing with each other.

Arthur? he thought, turning on his cot to see that, for the first time in a week, the older boy wasn't where Merlin had last seen him. His cot was empty. The pale orange glow of early morning lit the hospital tent but dimly, he looked around and vaguely remembered Gaius offering to show his mother to her own tent the night before. The old man was nowhere to be seen yet, this morning.

Shadow shifted and Uther's voice sounded from beyond the door-flap of the hospital tent. "A _dragon_, Arthur?"

A dragon. Merlin panicked, trying to kick his way free of pillow and blanket and cot, trying to establish a communication link to Kilgarrah, and was interrupted by his sudden graceless trip to the ground.

"Father, he flew right over us," Arthur's voice responded. "He showed himself deliberately – he could clearly see us, a camp full of knights of Camelot – and chose not to attack."

_Kilgarrah?_ Merlin managed. _You're back?_

_I have returned, young warlock. Will I be met with hostilities?_

"You are a child, Arthur, if you think that indicates any possibility of peace or truce," Uther growled back. "You have no idea how clever these beasts can be in their treachery. How in hell's name one of them managed to survive is beyond my imagining, but it won't be for much longer."

"Father!" Arthur exclaimed. "Kilgarrah does not have to be our enemy – please!"

Merlin said telepathically to the oldest of his kin, _I'm not sure yet_. He struggled free of his bedding and scrambled to his feet, inching closer to the open entrance. He didn't want to make things harder on Arthur with his unwanted presence, but neither did he want the older boy to bear the brunt of the blame and his father's wrath.

"Kilgarrah," Uther said softly. "And how is it that a son of mine knows the beast's name?"

A heartbeat of silence. Then Arthur said, in a particularly stubborn tone, "Because I helped to free him."

"You. Did. What."

Merlin winced in sympathy for his friend. He didn't think facing his camp's three elders all at once over some infraction was ever this bad.

"He'd already awakened – he was causing the earth-tremors Leon told us about-"

"And what better place to keep a dragon trapped than a cave under a hill!" Uther snapped. "Where he cannot burn or steal or kill and he may be dealt with at our convenience and leisure!"

"I – I hoped, by assisting in his freedom, I could put him in our debt, and request that he leave Camelot alone – forever."

"And how did that go?" Uther snarled sarcastically.

"He said, Dinas Emrys is his home," Arthur said. His voice dropped lower, almost to a mumble, as if his father's sharp disapproval made him believe in his own guilt and incompetence with every passing moment. Merlin clenched his fists, even though that made the left one hurt. "He won't leave the hill."

"I see." Uther's voice was calmer, colder. "Not only do we deal with the remains of Vortigern's rabble army, his escaped son presumably gone into hiding where he may gather men to oppose and harass us, but now we have an untamed dragon claiming the vantage point over our northern trade route. You have –"

"Not untamed, Father." Arthur's voice was quiet, but calm, also. Much calmer than Merlin felt; his own heart was racing. He wished he could turn and run.

"Explain."

"There is a dragonlord," Arthur said. "The last of them, I understand. A grandson of the man who spelled Kilgarrah under the hill."

"And it was this man who convinced you to free the brute." Uther sounded beyond furious. "You are a thoughtless boy and I am near ashamed to call you my son, if you trusted not only a dragon to feel any appreciation or to leave a valuable situation, but the twisted demon-spawn who controls the thing!"

"Please, Father, he's –"

"Who?" The word was short with the warlord's rage.

Merlin stepped forward then, slipping past the canvas wall of the tent to show himself. Uther gave him an impatient disgusted glance; Arthur's look held startled apprehension, and Merlin knew instantly that he had wanted to face his father on his own, had wanted to protect Merlin from whatever reaction Uther might have.

"It's me," he said clearly. Uther initially ignored him, but in paying attention to his son's expression, began to comprehend. "I am the dragonlord," Merlin repeated, just to be clear.

Uther turned slowly, dangerously. "And," he said, repeating the first words he'd ever spoken to Merlin, but with more significance, "who the hell are you?"

"Merlin," he answered, and his name was echoed in his head by a different voice, harsh with decades of disuse. _Merlin, do you require my aid in any way?_

_No, please_, he pleaded in response. _Let us try to work this out. I don't think you being here would help anything._

"_Just_ – Merlin?" The older man's voice dripped scorn.

He knew what Lord Pendragon was asking. To the druids he might be able to say, son of Balinor, son of Aurelian, and to the dragons themselves the marriage customs of humans probably meant little. But to this man, he had no heritage to claim. Just Merlin.

"Merlin of Dinas Emrys," Arthur said firmly, his blue eyes flashing the strength of his determination. "His name is Merlin Emrys."

It was not uncommon for second names or epithets to be thus bestowed, a knight to take the name of his ancestral home, a warrior a defining description. Even commoners could be expected to claim a surname or parentage.

Merlin Emrys. That was a very fine second name, he would be proud to bear it.

Uther gave his son a keen glare of scrutiny, then looked Merlin over head to foot as he might look at a young colt, for whom high expectations had proved an utter disappointment. "I don't know why you would lay such an absurd claim unless it were so," the warlord said finally. "Guard!"

Merlin's ribcage squeezed in on his heart. He glanced around for his mother or the physician – whether he wanted them there, or far away at that moment, he wasn't sure. But it was Sir Leon who stepped forward respectfully, and the reactive tightness in Merlin's chest eased.

"Father, you cannot do anything to Merlin," Arthur hissed. "Think of the reckoning the dragon will bring upon us –"

"We must do battle and kill the creature anyway," Uther said. "Bring it to us, and finish it off."

"And how many lives will we spend to do that?" Arthur exclaimed impatiently. "How many knights will die needlessly? Look!" His hands fumbled at his shirt, raised it up to show the scar, hideous still in the clear morning light across the smooth light skin of his side and belly. "He saved my life, Father. Do not make Merlin or Kilgarrah our enemies – I swear it does not need to be so! I swear it on my life!"

Uther stood for a moment, his eyes on Arthur's face rather than the healed injury. Leon's eyes were averted deferentially, as a guard no more part of the conversation than a statue. Merlin was aware of other knights, a few servants, moving about the tents, but though there were curious glances, all knew better than to come unbidden within earshot. Merlin was instinctively grateful for this – he knew that if the warlord had any more of an audience, his pride and his position would never allow him to back down.

"That only works once, Arthur," Uther said finally. "Do not presume to use the memory of your wound to influence my decisions again. You swear on your life? So be it. The dealings of the beast and its –" his lip curled derisively – "its master, are now entirely in your hands. I will not be responsible; on your head be any death or destruction dragon-caused. Yours the punishment incurred for law-breaking, yours the answer to any complaint whatsoever. Do I make myself clear?"

Arthur's face held the still impassivity that Merlin recognized as the suppression of feeling and reaction. "Perfectly, Father," he said, letting his shirt fall again.

Uther gave Merlin's bare feet a contemptuous glance. "I want him out of the camp in an hour," he said, addressing the air between Arthur and Leon, then spinning to stalk away.

Arthur said, "Yes, Father," over Leon's respectful murmur. As soon as his father had disappeared from their sight, Leon following with a smile and a nod, the older boy's expressionless mask cracked into a triumphant grin. "Ha!" he said, coming to clap Merlin's shoulder. "Do you know what this means?"

"No." He was still dizzy from the threat-and-gone-again of immediate death for being born a son of his father, for the ability to direct the dragon away from revenge. He was barefoot and empty-handed and in one hour completely on his own, with his mother to look after. He felt lonely and empty and – _It's fine, Kilgarrah_, he managed. _Arthur took care of everything._

_Becoming prince set all aright,_ the dragon responded.

Merlin thought he might need to sit down.

Arthur's smile gleamed. "He probably figures on there being a reckoning for Kilgarrah's freedom, and making me responsible for any damage or casualty will teach me a lesson – but the laugh's on him, when that never happens." He slung an arm around Merlin's neck. "You and Kilgarrah better be on your best behavior, Merlin – you're _my_ allies, now."

…..*…..

_At Dinas Emrys fiery core_

_The ancient magic sleeps no more_

_The blood was spilt the price was paid_

_In time of magic death was stayed_

_Healed within the high noon light_

_Becoming prince was made aright_

_The kin of magic's soul all spared_

_Finished journey thus prepared_

_Keep the hope await the king_

_Once and future peace will bring._

**A/N: One more chapter, something of an epilogue, and then… well, I'll explain in the last author's note…**


	16. The Chosen

**Chapter 15: The Chosen**

Arthur had never been good at good-byes. The knights rotated in and out of the fort on a regular basis, departing with little more than a tossed salute. His uncles came infrequently, and never just for a casual visit. His father had ridden out to battle on occasion, with little more than a list of instructions to his adolescent son – what to do when he was gone, what to if he didn't come back. Morgana left every autumn for her mother's estate further south, but their farewells were always composed of bickering and teasing.

"Where will you go?" he said to Merlin, as the younger boy knelt in the dust to lace his boots.

"My mum grew up near here," Merlin said. "A village called Ealdor?" He squinted up at Arthur, who shook his head to indicate his ignorance of such a place.

"Vortigern's son Cenred is still out there, somewhere," he reminded the younger boy. "Just be careful, all right?"

"Your father will claim the crown, once you're back home in Camelot, won't he?" Merlin asked, and gave him a regretful grin. "I'll be sorry to miss everyone seeing you become the prince."

Arthur was saved from having to reply when they heard voices, and turned to see Gaius, Hunith, and Morgana sauntering toward them, Merlin's mother arm in arm with Arthur's sister.

It brought to him a faint jealousy – Morgana still had her mother, after all. Then he remembered Vivienne - cool and impatient, clever and cunning, always looking to turn an advantage for herself or her daughters. Morgana had probably had as little of the warm, uncomplicated affection that Hunith displayed as Arthur himself. He found that he was pleased, in one evening and the next morning, that Merlin's mother seemed to be on good terms with his sister and the old physician, neither of whom were overly trusting of strangers.

Merlin hurried to the trio, stopping Gaius to relieve him of a traveler's pack, probably something his mother had brought with her from the druids' camp, since Merlin had only the clothes he stood in.

"Look at you," Morgana said saucily, as she and Hunith continued to meet Arthur. "Upright, and everything."

"Father's idea of thank you," he told them both, to provide explanation, "is to give Merlin an hour to leave camp."

Morgana was outraged. "I cannot believe he –" Hunith stopped her with a hand on her arm, taking her into a gentle embrace to say goodbye.

Behind them, Gaius was doing the same with Merlin. "Remember what I told you, boy," Arthur heard the old man say.

As Merlin nodded, Arthur was taken by surprise by Hunith turning to reach around his shoulders in a warm, caring hug. She whispered in his ear a simple but heartfelt, "Take care."

"You too," he said, and meant it. As she stepped away again, Arthur turned to see Merlin pause in front of his sister, only an inch or so taller than the younger boy.

"It was very nice meeting you," Morgana said, putting out her hand. "Thank you for all your help."

Arthur's eyebrow quirked on its own as Merlin took it, not to shake as equals, but touching only her fingers, and lightly, turning her hand so the back was up, as if he would – if Merlin kissed his sister's hand, Arthur determined to smack the back of the boy's head. But he simply inclined his head with a politely murmured, "My lady."

Morgana gave Arthur a surprised grin; he'd never seen her look so pleased with similar attentions from visiting knights or lords – who saw her as a marriageable Pendragon, probably, and that was all.

And then the druid boy was face to face with Arthur, and putting out his own hand. "Take care of your kin," Arthur told him, bypassing his hand to wrap his fingers around his friend's thin wrists, in the salute of true comradeship.

Merlin gripped his forearm the same way. "You as well," he said. "Give my best to Sir Leon."

They released each other's hand, as Merlin stepped back to join his mother, already beginning to walk away. Morgana raised her hand to wave, turning to follow her own pursuits.

"Don't be a stranger," Arthur said.

"Never." Merlin smiled before turning away.

Gaius shifted next to Arthur as they both watched mother and son leave the knights' camp. Without the enveloping druid's cloak, Merlin's stride was singularly free and easy, gawky as a colt's but somehow just as graceful as a knight's carefully balanced tread. Arthur missed him already; Merlin was so _different_ from anyone else he knew.

"You understand why he cannot come to Camelot, don't you," Gaius said. There was a regretful note in the old man's voice that surprised Arthur.

Arthur said, "Yes." He'd have to tell Gaius about Kilgarrah, he thought – and Aithusa. He cringed; his father would be furious – again – when he discovered there was not one old dragon left, but two.

Gaius glanced away from the two travelers, over to Arthur's face. "If he came to Camelot now, at his age," the old man said, "your father would make him an enemy, or a slave. He and his magic need complete freedom for some several years – as do you."

"Me?" Arthur said. "What do you mean?"

"I've seen the bond of friendship you two share," Gaius said. "The two of you would be inseparable. The prince and the sorcerer. It wouldn't work, not now, not yet. You must become your own man, on your own, if your father is ever to trust – to depend on – to relinquish control to you. With Merlin at your side and as your friend…"

Arthur remembered Merlin saying of Uther, _He wouldn't trust anything I say, anyway_. He remembered controlling his temper so that Bedwyr would consider his idea, and knew it would be much the same thing with his father, if Merlin remained his close friend, now – every time persuading Uther that his opinion was his own, and of value.

He sighed and grumbled, feeling sorry for himself and not really expecting the old physician to answer, "How long, Gaius? How long?" He thought of Merlin raising the white dragon in a tiny town, having free range of miles of surrounding forest, stretching wings and magic, both, with no one to regiment their days or judge their progress. He envied the younger boy. He couldn't imagine ever wanting to change such an existence – maybe it wasn't _when_ would he see Merlin again, but _if_?

Merlin and Hunith had reached the edge of the camp. Merlin turned and cupped his hands around his mouth to yell back up to Arthur.

"_See you soon_!"

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

It was raining, lightly, drops collecting together on the leaves before falling on the ground, on Merlin and his mother, on the markers commemorating a family he had never known.

Hunith held him as she wept softly, her tears joining the rain to wet his shirt through. A few of his own escaped, though he hadn't known them. His grandmother, the healer, and her husband. His other grandfather, Aurelian the dragonlord, fatally wounded by some of Constennin's men. His father, Balinor. Had he ever known, fully understood the pendant he'd given his bride-to-be?

If not for that one day, Merlin might have lived his life in the village just visible through the trees. Might have learned a carpenter's trade from his father. Might have had younger siblings, happiness. A great gift of magic, remaining untaught, unchallenged, used minimally for everyday needs…

Perhaps Kilgarrah would have slept on. Perhaps he'd never have met Arthur, the news of a Pendragon king far away and unimportant to the little farming village. In that case, Merlin wondered, how would prophecy have been fulfilled? A son of his? A grandson?

Prophecies are rarely understood until after their fulfillment, Iseldir had said. Did that mean destiny was set, or that choices led into destiny? Impossible to say beforehand, maybe.

Hunith's grief abated to an occasional tear. She'd told him a great deal already as they'd walked, about her family, his father. About Ealdor. He hadn't been surprised at the less-than-enthusiastic greeting they received – they knew he was a bastard, here, too - but hoped things would get better, with time. He wouldn't belong here any more than he'd belonged in the druid camp, but they might become accustomed to the eccentricities necessary for a fourteen-year-old dragonlord raising a yearling dragon who'd been born four decades earlier. He hoped his mother, at least, would find contentment, if not happiness, here.

For him, it was temporary, at best. He wondered if, among all the other young men and boys Arthur was in daily contact with, their relatively few days together had made as much of an impression for Arthur, as it had for him. If it was years, til they saw each other again, Arthur would remember him at all. He felt suddenly lonely.

"Merlin," Hunith said, breaking into his thoughts, and pushing away from him. She was looking to the side, beyond his shoulder.

"Hm?" he said, following her glance.

"It looks like Aithusa's treed the new boy," his mother said. She wiped her last tear and gave him a smile. "A perfect opportunity for you to introduce yourself.  
Merlin groaned. "Do I have to?" Yet another young male who was bound to be stronger and more coordinated and have much more in common with the other young boys than Merlin. "Aithusa's just curious. He'd never hurt him."

Hunith gave him a little shove, gathering her skirts to begin walking back to the hut on the edge of town that they'd moved into, began making it a home. "Not too late for dinner," she called after him.

Merlin gave a wave of acknowledgement, and trudged closer to the tree. Rain dripped down his collar, and he shivered. He rather missed the druid's cloak, at times, it had been like his shield against the unkind scrutiny of the world.

_Merlin! Merlin!_ Aithusa said, too young yet to form the audible words of humans. _Look what I found!_

_Who I've found_, he corrected telepathically. The wagon-sized white dragon crouched at the foot of the tree, wings neatly folded and tail lashing like a cat's. If he'd opened his wings and stood on his hind feet, he'd have been eye to eye with the brown-haired boy in the tree – who appeared fascinated and apprehensive at the same time.

"He won't hurt you," Merlin called up, not bothering to mention that it wasn't the smartest idea to climb a tree to escape from a creature with wings. "He's curious – he's only young."

The boy in the tree leaned forward, his boots scraping on the bark. "You can control it?" he called down uncertainly.

Aithusa had turned from the tree to nudge Merlin's with his head, almost knocking Merlin over. He grinned up at the boy. "Sort of," he said.

The boy hesitated, then clearly came to a decision, and began to descend. He said over his shoulder, "You're the boy with the dragon everybody keeps talking about?"

"Yeah," Merlin said. "I'm Merlin."

The boy jumped the rest of the way to the ground. "Merlin Emrys, right?" he said. "My name's William."

Merlin's smile couldn't have gotten wider. The lack of something he'd felt, walking away from Arthur, was soothed, at meeting the frank open gaze of the new boy. "Glad to meet you, Will," he said. "This is Aithusa."

"I thought all the dragons were dead," the other boy said, freezing as Aithusa snuffled eagerly around him, wings fluttering and claws marking the earth in deep gouges.

"That," Merlin said, as the white sails of the young dragon's wings snapped open to keep the rain off all of them, "is a long story." And one, he added as a promise to himself, that didn't yet have an ending.

**A/N: So there you have it, the end of Vortigern's Tower. Hope you enjoyed my version of the legends of Dinas Emrys!**

**Two things: 1****st****, I have a sequel planned. As yet unnamed, it will be 7 years from the time of this story.**

**2****nd****, meanwhile, I will write an intermission-type handful of chapters. Basically it will be a retelling of most of the episodes of seasons 1 and 2, as those events fit within the a/u I've written. The title of this (it's not really a part 2) will be The More Things Change. If I have more than 5 or 6 chapters worth, I will make a separate heading. Otherwise, I will just add that material to VT. This means, though, that I will be writing this out in advance, not updating as I go, so it might be several days before an updating (and then a chapter a day). Whichever way it goes, here or under a new story, I will add another chapter letting all the followers of VT know what I've decided… Thanks in advance if you decide to continue on this trek with me!**


	17. Chapter 17

**A/N: Some scenes/dialogue/spells will be recognizable, but instead of copying verbatim, I'd instead like to explore how the events of **_**Vortigern's Tower**_** might have changed things for our young heroes… I won't go too far afield, but I hope it's not boring, at least, in spite of the familiarity…**

**Also, just fyi, there will be eps and characters that don't figure into this intermission story at all, and that's because they will appear in a different way in part 2… !**

**The More Things Change**

I. The Dragonlord's Arrival

Merlin's stomach was still flying. His feet were on the road, energetically covering ground, but his stomach was still mounting up and dropping in swoops of alternating excitement and fear. He had been waiting for this day for _years_… and he was afraid it was going to disappoint him in the end. Perhaps he should have walked the whole way, taken more time to prepare himself.

He shrugged to himself, smiling as he passed a gentleman on horseback, headed the opposite direction. Too late now.

Merlin wasn't too distracted to notice his surroundings, as he came over the hill and out of the thicket. It was amazing, the new citadel of Camelot, far grander and bigger than he'd imagined it would be. The rising sun gilded the high clouds lingering in the sky; it was beautiful, though it was likely to be clear by noon.

He kept smiling, as he strode through the lower town, feeling the pull of the straps of his pack over his shoulders. The people here were clean, friendly, walked with their heads up. And though the streets were crowded, there was a feeling of cheerful industry, of safety, that he knew was due to the fair rule of the king, the protection of the knights. It was childish, maybe, but he couldn't stop looking all around him, absorbing every detail of his surroundings, as if the one he was watching for might turn up at any door, around any corner. The feeling in his stomach swooped again – what would his reception be? He hadn't had any indication from the reply to his letter that his friend would prove as eager to welcome him as he was eager to arrive.

The white towers soared high above as he crossed the diamond-pattern cobblestones; there were two guards at the drawbridge, but neither of them spoke to stop him entering. Were they so fearless, then? Or was it that they had nothing to fear? That made him happy, too.

No one stopped him, but he figured they would before long; probably they didn't let strangers wander around the citadel. So he back-stepped from another doorway to face the guard on the right, dressed in chainmail covered by the red-with-gold-dragon livery of Camelot. He wanted to ask where the prince might be, but that would be presumptuous, he thought.

So he said, "Where would I find Gaius, the court physician?"

The guard looked a little surprised at being asked, but leaned into the doorway to point up a staircase. Thanking him with a nod, Merlin took the stairs two at a time, noticing a little sign on the way that read, Court Physician. He rounded a corner to the left and continued up another stair, grinning to himself. He was definitely going to be getting exercise, here – there weren't any stairs in all of Ealdor.

Reaching the door he hoped was the right one, he tapped, and it creaked open under his light touch. He poked his head in, saying softly, "Hello?" in case he was interrupting something important.

The silence was broken by the noise of bubbling liquid in a beaker in an apparatus that held it aloft over a candle's flame, and the squeak of the door's hinges. He glanced around, not sure if the old man he remembered would have left such a process unsupervised.

"Gaius?" he tried again, a little louder.

Movement caught his attention, high on one wall. He saw a narrow walkway, uneven shelves stuffed with books – and the court physician who'd once helped him save Arthur's life turned, surprised at his voice.

The walkway railing snapped behind him, and the old man flung his arms out, helpless to stop his startled fall.

Merlin reacted instinctively, slowing time to a crawl. He glanced about – he could catch the old man, but that might cripple them both, no, he needed – there. A bed. Another golden glance, and the cushioned furniture shot across the room, positioned itself under its owner. Satisfied, Merlin released the moment of time, and Gaius crashed onto the bed. Merlin reached to help him, but the old physician rolled off the other side of the bed, hardly winded.

"What was that?" he demanded irately. "And who are you?"

"I'm Merlin, remember?" Merlin said, smiling. "I wrote you a letter?"

"Merlin!" Gaius exclaimed. "Skin and bones druid lad? But you're not meant to be here until Wednesday!"

Merlin's smile turned sheepish. "I know. I was… a little impatient. So Aithusa brought me –"

"Good heavens, boy, please don't tell me you brought the dragon to Camelot!" Gaius sputtered. "If you haven't got any more sense than that –"

"No, just partway. He's off to the north, now, he was excited to be on his own, too."

"Ah." Gaius looked up at the broken railing, down at the new position of his bed.

"Sorry about that," Merlin told him. "I didn't mean to startle you."

"I suppose I should be grateful it happened when it did," Gaius said. "That railing has needed fixing for a while now."

"I can do that for you?" Merlin offered.

"Thank you, my boy." Gaius looked up at the railing again, then glanced him over. "But it can wait a day or so. You'd better put your bag in there." He gestured behind him to a short stair leading to a small door with a pointed arch.

"Thanks," Merlin said, heading for the room that was to be his new home. He stood in the open door, sliding the pack from his shoulders and letting it drop to the floor. It was a storeroom, formerly, judging by the stacks of empty and half-empty crates, but there was a bed, a cupboard for his clothes and other things, and two tables for his use – one by the bed, the other under a high window, both with candles for his convenience in the dark.

"I suppose you'll be wanting to greet Arthur?" Gaius said.

Merlin left his pack – there wasn't much in it, unpacking would take all of five seconds, and could be done later – and turned, hopping down all the stairs at once. "Do you know where I can find him?" he asked, not bothering to hide his eagerness. Much.

"Training field," the old man said shortly. "Or maybe the side courtyard." As he crossed the chamber again, Gaius spoke after him in a cautioning tone, "Merlin," and he turned at the door, expectantly. "Please try to remember, any public displays of unauthorized magic will be highly offensive to King Uther."

Merlin smiled. "Right," he agreed, and ducked out the door again.

**A/N: This is the first section of chapter 1. I'll be entering chapters under the new story heading The More Things Change as they're finished…**


End file.
